


Tourjours en Avant

by fervent, theamazingpeterparker



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - World War II, American History, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Historical, M/M, Multi, World War II, medic harry, paratrooper liam, sniper niall, theres a happy ending promise, zayn and louis r just regular soldiers lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fervent/pseuds/fervent, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theamazingpeterparker/pseuds/theamazingpeterparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>From this day to the ending of the world we in it shall be remembered. We lucky few, we band of brothers. For he who today sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.</i>
  <br/>
</p><p>Or, a World War II AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tourjours en Avant

**Author's Note:**

> we wrote 28k of a wwii au in like three days fueled by 2am hysteria and the rest of it has been sitting in our googledocs for like six months. and now the world shall see it.  
> shoutout to catie for being a lovely beta.  
> title translates to "always forward", and is the motto of the 34th infantry of the US army.  
> we apologize for any historical inaccuracies!

 Zayn enlists the day after he gets his draft card. Spent the whole night before tossing and turning, the envelope on the top of a few from professors at colleges he’d yet to inform he’d decided against attending in the fall, then told his parents over breakfast and they’d tightened their lips at him, tried not to look as upset as he knew they were. They’d been some of the first on their block to clear the little front yard they had for a small garden, just easy things like carrots and lettuce, and now Zayn was going to be leaving. As simple as making a garden, really, if he tries to convince himself. The metaphor is clumsy but it gets him through the line at the office, the inspection and as he signs the forms they hand him he thinks _just another pea in a pod._ Clever, funny. Going to be a writer, Zayn Malik. Bright future ahead of him.

Louis is bitter in line, tells the sergeant stamping their forms there’s a lot he didn’t get to tell them in that interview. He wants to serve his country or whatever, he just doesn’t want to fight. Doesn’t want to leave the girls, doesn’t want to miss the summer here. Feels like winter wasn’t even worth living through, the goddamn rations and drills and the radio on every night trying to convince them they were winning. He feels too young, is the point. He doesn’t know how to fold his own shirts or make a goddamn pancake, much less shoot a gun or live with a bunch of men excited to make their beds right. He gets his orders a few weeks later regardless, his mouth already tasting like metal.

The process for becoming a medic is slightly different than standard sign-ups: Harry walks in and tells them he’s been apprenticing at the pharmacy in town for over a year, knows first aid and CPR and wants to be a medic, not an infantryman, and they nod along, put him through basic anyway. There’s a few weeks of medical and he learns he’s not the only one here as a form of conscientious objection, no one cares. He absorbs the lessons they give him, spends evenings memorizing his kit and what to do without any of it, how to tourniquet a leg, an arm, what requires stitches and what’s just a bandage. Tries so hard he can’t think straight, misses a question on their exam and fails it, has to retake it even though the whole class knows he knows it better than any of them. Doesn’t matter. If he can’t do it in a goddamn classroom how’s he going to do it on the field. It’s his voice in his head asking, not the instructor.

Liam’s dad walks with him to the draft office on a Friday afternoon, took off work early to go with him. He’s been putting it off long enough, he says, _it’s time to do the right thing._ Liam nods, smiles at him in a way that feels like a grimace, thinks his dad should see straight through that, shouldn’t he, but he doesn’t. Waits in the hall while he catches up with the officers, thinks maybe he’ll go for something brave like the airborne unit, try to make something of it besides his dad’s hand on the back of his neck.

Niall’s getting a haircut when news of Pearl Harbor is first broadcast, he’s fifteen and thinking about how to spend the change leftover when one of the other men waiting in the shop turns up the radio, the whole place goes quiet. Greg sends word three days later that he’s fine but Niall never forgets the way his whole world seemed quiet in between, the sound of his mom crying in the kitchen when no one was supposed to be awake. They try to keep in touch with everyone back home but it’s hard, gets expensive the further into the war and finally when Ireland is bombed despite being neutral, he tells his parents he’s going to go. The day he leaves he notices the BB gun he got for Christmas in ‘40 on the shelf in his room, so much a part of it he’d forgotten he had it.

*

The first time they all meet, they’re crammed into their barracks in North Carolina, sizing each other up. Zayn is packed up first, his bunk blankets made with tight corners and a small stack of books on the allotted shelf beside the bunk. He’s quiet, but not in a rude way, more in a _please leave me alone_ way, tucked against the wall and his mattress and watching the others with soft brown eyes peeking over his worn copy of _A Farewell To Arms_.

Louis is first to call him out on his reading selection, strides over and plucks the book from Zayn’s hands. “Read this my senior year. Depressing as fuck, why’re you reading it now?” he asks with raised brows, flipping through the dog-eared pages and looking at Zayn with a demanding expression. Zayn had just shrugged. Doesn’t tell Louis that he’s got _All Quiet On The Western Front_ in his little stack, too.

“Tomlinson, give him his book back, yeah?” Liam asks, hoisting his suitcase to the bunk above Zayn’s.

Louis bristles. “Don’t want him damaging our _morale_ with books about the last shitstorm of a war, do we, Payno? Those books should be considered contraband. Surely you were taught that we were supposed to go _fight_ the communists, fascists, who the fuck ever, not _read_ about them?”

“‘S a classic,” Zayn pipes up from his corner. “Their political views don’t make them any less important as people. You might know that if you actually read a newspaper once in a while.” he sits up, plucks the book out of Louis’s hands, and settles back into his spot.

Louis looks like someone just smacked him across the face, and the bunk is tense for a moment before he bursts into a grin and claps Zayn roughly on the shoulder. “Knew I’d like you, wise guy. Just don’t start sympathizing with the Nazis when they’re about to cut open Soldier Payne’s throat or something.”

That first day, Louis tried very hard to get the other boys riled up. He almost succeeded, too, if it hadn’t been for Harry Styles seeing right through him.

“Louis. It’s Louis, right?” Harry approaches him that night in the mess hall. “Look. I know you’re scared, but I think the last thing any of us need is someone trying to turn us all against each other.”

Louis blinks once, twice at the kid. He looks like he can’t be more than eighteen, floppy brown curls and big green eyes that go against every possible vision of _American Marine_ that Louis has ever envisioned. But Harry’s got a Medic In Training booklet under one arm and there’s something about the way that he sets his jaw when he looks at Louis that makes Louis think that Harry knows more than he’s letting on.

So instead of fighting Harry, instead of telling him off, Louis just bites his lip and nods, eyes downcast. “Stick to the mission, right?” he jokes half-heartedly, and he feels Harry squeeze his shoulder hard.

“Stick to the mission.”

As all teenage conversations go, they learn most about each other after lights out, whispering between bunks and hiding under their blankets when a sergeant patrols past.

“My dad’s more proud of me getting a draft card than he was of me getting my high school diploma,” Liam whispers, low and shameful. Louis can’t see his face from where he’s laying under Niall’s bunk, but something in Liam’s voice makes him want to push him for more.

“Your dad some ex-military prick, then?”

There’s another tense pause and the sound of Liam rolling over, his eyes glinting bitterly down towards Louis’s bunk. “Yeah. Fought in France in 1918, just at the end of the Great War. Barely got to see any time on the frontline before the war ended. He’s always been a little bitter about that, that he hardly got to fight. Mom says he’s probably trying to live vicariously through me.” There’s an unconvincing laugh that punctuates his explanation.

Louis doesn’t know what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind. Which makes him sound like an asshole. “Vicarious. That’s a big word, Payno.”

There’s another silence until Liam rolls over again, away to face the wall. And then there’s a quiet, “fuck you, Louis,” from Zayn, and then the sergeant strolls by again and that’s the end of the conversation.

They don’t see much of each other once their training intensifies. Niall, Harry, and Liam all get pulled and put into separate training groups, Niall with the snipers and Harry with the medics and Liam with the paratroopers. It leaves Louis and Zayn as average infantrymen, training to shoot their rifles without stumbling at the kickback and gathering all their supplies at a moment’s notice. Zayn keeps reading his war books and Louis keeps teasing him, but it’s different now. Friendlier. Maybe because Louis has started to realize that he can’t get through this by himself or because Zayn always needs help with assembling his gun, but by the end of bootcamp they’re practically brothers. All of them are, Niall and Harry and Liam always joining them in the mess hall or the cafeteria to joke about their day of training.

They have a game, after one day of a particularly disgusting dinner of crusty mashed potatoes and dry chicken, that Niall starts.

“If you could have anything for dinner right now, what would you have?” he asks as he pokes at his potatoes, looking up eagerly to see who’ll humor him.

Harry answers first. “Mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

There’s a pause, and Louis grins around the top of his mug. “That’s it? Ice cream?”

Harry pouts, flicks a bit of crumb at the blue-eyed boy. “He said anything.”

Louis sighs, slumps back in his seat and opens his arms over the tray in front of him. “Thanksgiving dinner, I think. Nice big turkey, sweet potatoes and cranberries and gravy, oh _god_ gravy.”

Liam says macaroni and cheese. Zayn says his aunt’s spaghetti. Niall goes off on a ten minute rant about his mother’s famous homemade sugar cookies. So, it becomes a thing. _What would you have for dinner? If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go? If you could live anywhere, where would you want to live?_ Harry wants to go to Paris. Zayn’s always wanted to see the west coast, but he loves Brooklyn too much. There’s a fight between him and Zayn over the Red Sox and Yankees, and Harry admits he’s never been to a baseball game. Louis is positively offended and promises to take him when they get back. (It makes Harry smile, if only because Louis puts so much emphasis on _when_ they get back and not _if_.)

The nicknames that Louis assigns each of them make everything more bearable, somehow. It’s a total cliche, soldiers responding faster to their nicknames than their actual names, but it brings them all closer. Louis brings them all closer, will happily tease and be teased by each of them if it means getting their minds off the inevitable war that’s looming over their heads. Harry quickly becomes Doc. Curly, sometimes, when he wakes up with bedhead and doesn’t have time to fix it or tie it back before breakfast. Niall’s next, Louis dubbing him Spaz when the blonde boy knocks over Zayn’s stack of books in his rush to show the sergeant his assembled gun, first to have it cleaned and reassembled in under five minutes. Calls him Blondie, too, after Louis catches him reading the comic strips during dinner one night. Zayn’s just wise guy, from day one. That or Brooklyn, only calls him Brooklyn when they’re arguing about sports. Liam is just Soldier for a while, until Louis realizes that Liam isn’t actually an army brat and that he hates any kind of nickname that makes him think of his father. Calls him Payne or Detroit instead. It’s endearing, really, and it’s the closest Louis will ever get to actually showing sentiment toward any of them.

It’s the end of May when they can start spending more time together. They’re all prepped for _Operation Overlord_ , the details vague enough that they only know they’re going to be landing on some beach in France and it’s going to be rough. There’s no more real training, just all of them milling around waiting for this inevitable shift in their lifestyle. Zayn rereads _Under Fire_ and Harry checks his medical kit every night before going to bed. Niall sleeps with his scope tucked under his pillow, Liam winds his father’s pocketwatch before falling asleep, and Louis doesn’t sleep at all.

Harry’s the only one who knows that Louis doesn’t sleep, because he lies awake at night too, watching him with concerned green eyes from across the bunks.

“If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?” Louis finally sighs, rolling onto his side to look at the young medic. Harry’s off somewhere in his head, Louis knows by the way he’s picking at a loose thread in his sheets and not responding to Louis’s question.

“Hey. Harry.”

Hearing his name must snap him out of it, because Harry finally looks over at Louis with wide, scared eyes. Before Louis can ask what’s wrong, draw up some reason to distract Harry from his own thoughts, the younger boy is slipping out of his bed and across to Louis’s mattress, sitting carefully on the end of it.

“‘M scared, Lou,” he finally says, balling up Louis’s blankets in his fist to hide the fact that his hands are shaking so hard. It’s the first time Harry’s ever said anything like this, it’s the first time anyone has called him _Lou_ since he was a little kid. It hits Louis like a punch to the gut and he sits up, scrambling to the end of the bed to pull Harry into his arms.

He doesn’t have anything to say, because god knows Louis has never been good with words, not since his first day here, so he just hugs Harry tight and mumbles _Hey, I know, me too_ into the boy’s hair, quiet enough that it doesn’t wake the others. They sit stock still for a while, until Louis can take Harry’s wrist and press his thumb against the pulse there. They’ve both stopped shaking, Louis timing his breath to the dull thudding under Harry’s skin and tries to not let his own heartrate pick up when Harry nuzzles into his neck.

“I’m going to miss you.”

It jolts Louis again, Harry’s soft confessions, and he pulls away to glare sternly at him, tipping his chin up to meet his eyes. “Styles. What the fuck.”

Harry just shrugs, shrinks in on himself and takes a rattled breath. “I mean, like, just in case--”

“Harry! Harry. There is no just in case, alright? I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to come back here and I’m going to take you to Boston and we’re going to go to a Sox game, yeah, before Zayn can convince you to be a Yankees fan or some shit. I’m not going anywhere, so there’s no reason to miss me. I’m right here.”

Louis has no idea where he pulled that from, out of thin air, thinks of the time he wanted to be a magician when he was eight and be able to pull things out of nowhere, and then Harry surges upwards and kisses him. It shouldn’t shock Louis, _doesn’t_ shock him, really, but it’s 2 AM and the sergeant could walk by any minute and Louis’s heart is jackrabbiting against his ribcage because this feels important. This feels like something he’s going to remember for the rest of his life. Harry whimpers softly into his mouth until Louis sighs and digs his fingers into the muscles of Harry’s back, securing him to the older boy’s lap and keeping him close, _I’m not going anywhere, I’m not going anywhere_. Some part of Louis wishes this was softer, quieter and less desperate, but Harry licks into his mouth and grinds down on his hips and _fucking hell, Styles_ , and he tastes like the stale coffee from the mess hall and Liam’s mints he’d got hidden in his bag and Louis has to get Harry off his lap before he does something embarrassing.

“Harry, Harry, dammit, _Styles_ ,” Louis pants, regretfully shuffling away from Harry. The younger boy’s mouth is red and he looks dazed and Louis tucks this image of Harry away to the back of his mind, wonders what the kid would look like if they were in Louis’s bed back in Hartford. “Harry, answer my question.”

Harry blushes, a pretty pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck as he pushes his hair out of his face, drops his hands into his lap and scoots back to the end of the mattress. “My mom’s house, I think. There’s a hammock in the backyard. I used to take naps there when I was little, my sister would come outside and find me all tangled up in the ropes.”

Louis considers this. Considers how Harry knows next to nothing about Louis, but he’ll still tell Louis anything that Louis wants to know.

“I’d go back to downtown Hartford, I think,” Louis finally says, and Harry starts a little next to him. Louis doesn’t talk about himself, but he feels like he owes Harry this. At least. “There was this little corner candy shop. My babysitter would work there, she’d give me some extra lollipops in my bag whenever I went in.”

When he looks up, Harry is grinning at him, his nose and eyes crinkling up the way they do when something is really funny to him.

“What?” Louis hisses, almost immediately bristling until Harry laughs and shakes his head. “God, you east coast boys. They’re not _lollipops_ , Louis. They’re _suckers_.”

And just like that, relief floods Louis and he flops back onto his mattress, kicking at Harry until the younger boy gets up, scampers back across to his bunk chuckling softly. “Tell you what, Doc,” Louis says finally to the dark ceiling of his bunk. “When we get back, I’ll get you some suckers. And I’d like to see that hammock with you, I think.”

There’s a brief silence, the two of them laying across from each other with warmth blooming in Louis’s chest, and then it’s broken by Niall groaning, “you two are _disgusting_.”

*

They ship out to England early in the morning on a Tuesday, the five of them all on the same ship out from Charleston at 1000 sharp. Louis is busy trying to distract Zayn by messing with Liam, which in theory (and practice) has always worked perfectly, but he can’t seem to drag his eyes from the coast fading and disappearing from view. It’s Harry that ends up doing it, pulling all of them into a group hug alongside him with a “Glad it’s you boys I’m here with,” and that’s enough for everyone to groan and shove at him. “Oh my god, shut up,” Niall laughing with him, “Harry we love you and all but please, cool down.” When Louis catches his eye it’s something else besides amusement, realizes suddenly that the whole basis of his friendship with him has this sense of assumption in it, nothing monumental that they bonded over the way he had with Liam and his dad or Zayn with his dumb books. Harry with whatever, everything. Niall’s just been along for it, hadn’t even occurred to him that they just skipped the whole idea of beginning. Not even sure they’d ever introduced themselves. Smiles a little wider and Niall doesn’t doubt him, returns it as they turn back to the water. Zayn pulls the cigarette he’s had behind his ear and lights it, says a quiet toast, “From sea to shining sea,” and they all smile and agree, “Hear, hear,” and the shore disappears, just the Atlantic and the five of them, for a moment longer.

The rest of the boys make their way in off the deck after a while longer, bored by the quickly monotonous ocean surrounding the ship, but Louis lingers, thinks about home and Boston Harbor, trips with his mom to the beach when he was really little, just the two of them. He had hardly even considered the water then, always too cold to really swim in, too much sand to play in and throw around, but now it’s all he has. Seems too big to even comprehend, has this feeling in his skin that this is wrong, leaving home and everything he knows, everything American, with a goddamn pamphlet in his pocket explaining how different life is overseas. _The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a good cup of tea. It’s an even swap._ Not to mention they’re going to a world war. He squints at the horizon and thinks about fuck all, three months ago his mom saying goodbye hardly able to look at him with worry. Kissing the tops of the girls’ heads, turning back to look at them all in the doorway of the house, waving over his shoulder.

“Y’alright, Louis?”

He turns from the railing and Niall is standing there, hands in his pockets looking strangely unsure of himself, has to kind of shake himself out of it to answer,

“Yeah, yeah, good. Just thinkin’”  
  
and he plays it off with a smile because that’s what he does, that’s who he is here, watches as Niall approaches and leans next to him, matches his pose on the railing.

“Bout what?”

and that’s who Niall is too, lighthearted but so sincere, wants to know and doesn’t really care that he’s trying to hide it from him with a non-answer.

Louis pauses a moment, tries to put any kind of words together that aren’t completely depressing, don’t totally give him away,

“Just home. The girls, dunno.”  
  
Lets it trail off and keeps staring at the water outside them, because that’s always a good excuse. The ocean is practically made for it. Humans have been staring at it forever. He can include himself in it. If Niall doesn’t answer his second non-answer that’s fine. They can just stand here and look and that’s fine.

“It’s hard to leave, yeah? Like I kind of thought, going into it, it’d be better sort of… Have something to do that felt like actually helping?”  
  
As hesitant as Niall’s being, it’s not casual in the least, feels like he’s leading into something and Louis agrees with him, knows that feeling in his gut. Wishes it felt more like they were saving their families and not like they were probably never going to see them again. Leaves it at a quiet hum under his breath. Niall sighs and leans his head back so he’s looking at the back of the deck, keeps his hands on the railing and Louis watches him do it, shifts back to see even as he can feel Niall’s not a hundred percent comfortable saying this, whatever it is he’s getting at. Wants him to say it. Wants to see him say it.

“I want it to feel like the past ten years... growing up in that wasn’t for nothing, you know?”

He meets his eyes, then, and Louis doesn’t have to say anything, knows he’s giving it all away on his face. Nods and purses his lips, lets Niall look away first.

They haven’t all talked extensively about their families; everyone knows all about Louis’ because he can’t seem to _stop_ talking about them, but otherwise it’s just been brief things, Niall’s brother shipped out ages ago now, Zayn’s sisters write with almost perfect penmanship, one of them’s still learning cursive. Harry keeps his a little closer to his chest, doesn’t really bring it up on his own, Liam hardly mentions anyone. Besides that, Louis knows even less of their pasts, just where they come from, what they did well at in school. Knows about Liam’s dad, Zayn was going to college, whatever. Niall talking about growing up with the depression is new, feels like something fundamental he should have known, somehow. Wonders what he’s pulling from to think they have it in common, to see through his loose claim at homesickness to maybe both of them struggling through. More than just his sisters’ arrivals that kept them from going to the beach all summer when he got older and his dad had left, doesn’t think about it often. He’d done what he’d had to, wasn’t the only kid that pulled the weight for his family.

“It’ll be worth it just getting home again, I feel like. Seeing everyone, the war being over...”

and even as he says it he doesn’t totally mean it, doesn’t know how to. Can’t imagine it no matter how hard he tries. But Niall smiles over at him,

“Good to have something new to pray for, right?”

and Louis smiles back, claps a hand to his neck.  
  
“That’s the spirit, yeah, we’ll get home and lie in bed all day and no one will even think of giving us a single thing to do.”  
  
“I’ll play my guitar all day.”

“You’ll play guitar all day. And I’ll eat my weight in ice cream.”

“Ice cream cones and hot dogs.”

“Baseball games are our only chores.”

“Baseball and football. Wearing our pajamas.”  
  
Louis has to laugh at that, and then it’s just the two of them laughing on the deck, watching the water beneath them. On a ship hardly out of sight of home, headed toward some country they’ll call a memory some day.

*

There’s not much to do during the trip, and none of the troops seem to know what to do with their freetime. The officers have left them all mostly to their own devices, new friendships forming from guys who spend most of their time on deck or in the mess hall. Conversations start about things they never had time to really talk about in basic, and more often than not the five boys find themselves drawn into a group discussion about something from back home. Arguments about FDR and his programs to help the economy, stories of where everyone came from and if they were drafted or if they enlisted. It’s only a matter of time before one of the guys has his journal out, passing around pictures of his children and wife. It starts a new conversation, the circle of men in the cafeteria hall going around and talking about who the special someone is in their life.

The chain of discussion eventually winds around to Harry, who blushes and looks down at his hands. “Don’t really have anyone, like, romantic.” he feels Louis’s hand on his shoulderblade, a silent _speak up, Doc_ and looks up at the huddle around him. “I worked at this bakery for a bit a few summers ago, though. Barbara was the owner, i miss her a lot. She was the one who convinced me to be a medic when I enlisted. She wrote me a few letters when we were still at Bragg, promised me a welcome home cake when we get back.”

He gets a few nods--after all, his isn’t the weirdest confession they’ve heard so far, Tim Smith across the circle admitted to flirting with his little sister’s babysitter before he shipped off-- and Louis squeezes his shoulder once before speaking up himself.

“Not ashamed to admit it’s my mother!” he says with a grin, earns a few chuckles and shouts of agreement from the other men. “But if any of you rag on me for it, you’d best sleep with one eye open.”

Liam passes, mutters _Same as Tomlinson_ and nobody blames him for it.

Niall leans forward, elbows on his knees and beaming the way he does before he’s about to tell a story.  “Went to church with this girl Mary,” he starts, sighs a bit to himself like he’s remembering something pleasant. “We grew up together, I guess, she lived in the neighborhood next to mine and we would see each other all the time, just always kind of hanging out with the same group of people. Lovely, lovely girl. You know how some girls aren’t really _pretty_ until they go through puberty? She was kinda like that, nothing real special. But I had these fucked up teeth and I still had brown hair, so I wasn’t really much of a looker, either. So, like, we got along because of our personalities. And then puberty happened, we’re both sixteen or seventeen and _man_ we were always good together. Kissed her in the basement of the church.” He pauses, lets the group grin or laugh while he sits back in his chair, quiet for a few seconds. “Miss her the most, I think. Always joked about marrying Mary under the statue of the Virgin Mary in the worship hall. Don’t know if we were, like, dating though. Just kinda enjoying each other’s company, I guess.”

Niall finally shrugs, cocks his head at Zayn and it takes Zayn a moment to figure out that it’s his turn. He takes a moment to think, never really had a girlfriend he was serious about, misses his sisters and mom but can’t pick which one he misses most. He leans back, runs a hand through his hair and knots his knuckles into the crown of his head, where his hair’s getting longer. “Annie,” he finally says with a warm smile. “She's my best girl. We used to walk down by Brooklyn Bridge Park. We went to Central Park once, when she was little. My mom took us. I’ve never seen her so happy.” Zayn raps his knuckles against the table for a second, rubs his face. “I’m going to take her again when I get back, I think.”

Zayn doesn’t realise that Liam’s jealous until two days later, Liam tucked into his bunk when Zayn comes in to ask if he’s seen Zayn’s copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_.

“Liam, have you seen it?” Zayn asks a second time, ducks closer to Liam’s bunk in case he hadn’t heard him. Liam doesn’t answer, just turns over to glare at Zayn.

“Liam, Christ, answer me,” Zayn teases, starts rifling through Harry’s bunk until Liam finally blurts, “who’s Annie?”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow at him, takes a second to process the question, and then, “oh my _God_ , Liam, is that why you’ve been ignoring me for _two days_?”

Liam sits up, rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “I know that we’re all on our own here, Zayn, but like you can’t go around flirting with me for five months and then saying there’s _someone at home_ , that’s kind of fucked up, you know that? If you and this Annie are serious, don’t try to drag me into it--”

Zayn is laughing, now, loud belly-laughs and he’s holding onto the top of his bunk to stop himself from doubling over. “oh my _god_ , Liam,” he says again, and then starts poking around his own bags above Liam’s bunk and pulls out his copy of _All Quiet on the Western Front._ There’s a photo sticking out of it, his bookmark, and he opens the book carefully, sticks a finger in the page he’s on and pulls out the picture. Hands it to Liam and waits.

There’s a few seconds of embarrassed silence from Liam and then he mumbles, “oh,” and hands the photograph of the grey and brown shepard back to Zayn. “Annie’s your dog.”

Zayn just hums, snorts another laugh when he tucks the photo back into the book and tosses the book back into his bunk.

“So yeah, Annie and I are pretty serious, I’ve had her since she was a puppy, but I’m sure she’ll be willing to share me if you give her a spoonful of peanut butter and a tummy rub. She’s pretty easy to win over,” Zayn winks, puts him in a headlock and scrubs his knuckles across Liam’s head before he ducks out of the bunkroom. Liam rolls over against the wall until he stops blushing.

*

0151

It’s the softest landing of Liam’s career, just his feet touching onto the ground, floating exactly the way they’d trained but never quite perfected in actual practice. Can’t wait to tell his dad he’d finally done it. By the time he catches his breath again he can’t remember the fall whatsoever, like a dream he just woke up from, just smiles into the dark and lets his eyes adjust. A perfect landing. What are the odds.

In his left hand he’s still holding the cord to his chute, slips his right into his pocket for his cricket. Gives his eyes a few more blinks and then releases himself from the tangle of strings above him, feels his weight come back to him. How he managed to land in a tree in the dark that perfectly…. Shakes his head. (The first of a handful of miracles that are going to happen, just doesn’t know it yet. Thinks he’s survived but hasn’t at all.)

He makes his way through the trees slowly, moves as if he has any idea where he’s going. The ground quickly turns to more swamp than dirt and it’s shit to walk in, feels like a hundred decibels to move. Resists the want to check his compass every step but it’s dark and no one is answering the click of his cricket. It’s so still besides his movement that he feels paranoid. The tension of waiting for a response, any sound besides the weight of his pack shifting and his feet shifting forward, it’s getting to him. _Keep calm. It’s only been a few minutes. Probably still men landing down, even. Maybe actually stuck in a tree, not as lucky as you were._ The voice in his head has started sounding less like his dad and more like Louis, he realizes. Doesn’t think about it. Keeps moving, heads toward the softer light of what he presumes is the edge of the swamp, tries to remember what landmark he should recognize. Can hear gunfire and planes still above but is fine-tuned into the cricket, lets himself click once for every fifteen steps. Reaches the edge to road lining open field, now what. Swallows down his panic. _What now what now._ Moves parallel to the line of trees, just behind them and then a shot zings past his helmet and he’s down, flat to the ground. Fucking shit. There has to be someone else here, nearby. Has to be.

He’s getting desperate, knows he needs to move but takes a tiny moment anyway, tightens his helmet and savors the feeling of the strap on his chin, shakes his head and peers through the grass, can’t see shit, then crawls back a little, shifts toward the direction he came from. Not two seconds later more fire comes through where he was and that’s enough to send him scurrying, back again, then farther east than he thinks he should be but he’s not really sure anyway, swallows down the panic but then there’s fire again, right at him. A surprised sound comes out of his mouth, out of his control completely and he gets up a little, crawl-stands and moves farther back in hopes of more cover then drops again, breathes in and out and _Keep calm._ On pure instinct completely stops breathing, feels rather than sees someone to his right. Holds as still as possible for a few minutes, just lets himself be afraid and think about dying, think about Zayn and Louis sleeping in their bunks, Niall, Harry, the four of them preparing still, not even awake. Not in it, not out here, safe and inside. Just a moment longer. He clicks his cricket once, first time in minutes. For the first time hears the two responding clicks back and wants to cry.

It’s Billy. They grab each other and hold on so tight Liam thinks he could burst, has hardly spoken to him besides the occasional card game or talking shit about the Midwest, Billy from Indiana, Billy the best fucking boy he’s seen in his life. Whisper a quick _‘ve you seen anyone, where are they,_ establish that they’re in that patch of woods south of the drop zone, maybe, between 82’s and 506th’s instead of inside 82. They need to head toward where they were supposed to be dropped, but neither of them are eager to move. The clouds thin for a moment and then clear completely and it’s a full moon, Liam thinks about basic and how far he is from home, takes it as a signal to get going.

They cut through the trees just out of sight of the perimeter. Liam doesn’t stop praying the entire time, just one long _please keep them away from us, please let there not be anyone else in here, please_ and they make it. Underneath the adrenaline he feels tired, knows it won’t be the last time and pushes on, peers through the trees facing north now, tries to catch his breath. Billy beside him is on cricket duty, every minute is another click down and then waiting. “We’re gonna have to cross,” and Billy nods, they both know, the road is their only option now, need to get to the bridge and where the rest of the division is (should be. hopes they are.).

*

Reports come in slow, hardly at all. It’s not enough information to get any real sense of what’s happened, what’s happening. It’s quiet on board. They’re supposed to be preparing for action, checking supplies and gear, saying prayers or whatever, writing letters. Zayn has been staring at his gun for ten minutes, a long moment that pulls him down, down, down. Can’t stop imagining Liam in the dark, in his plane with his crew, waiting to jump, only hours ahead, now, somewhere out there but completely out of reach. Comes out of it only as Louis puts his hand to his arm, holds it there a second. “Won’t get this over with any quicker if you’re worrying about him too much to move, Malik,” tone all comfort and trying. Zayn shakes his head, “Just can’t stop thinkin about em,” and if he’s covering it with a plural that’s fine, Louis knows the difference anyway. “Got to, got to focus on the _mission_.” Teasing because neither of them took this seriously at first, or serious enough, and now they’re here and it’s more serious than they ever wanted to get but can’t let that go. Need something to hang onto and god be damned if Louis Tomlinson would let a joke go.

The minutes crawl. They eat supper and are expected to go to sleep but Zayn feels so restless he can’t even sit. Louis is in his bunk with a goddamn book, the first time he’s ever seen him reading anything but a comic, thinks he probably stole it from Zayn’s bag earlier but won’t let him see what it is. Most of the men trying to play cards or dice in the small spaces they’ve managed. He gives up pacing around and lies down, closes his eyes and thinks about home, Safaa and reading to her before bed, the sounds of his mom doing dishes in the kitchen, radio on in the living room. Dad reading the paper, Waliyha lying in her spot on the floor with a book or her doll, Doniya writing letters from the desk across the hall.

Next thing he knows the alarm is going off in the dark and he’s stumbling into his gear by memory, Louis hopping down next to him with a quick, “Morning, Z,” and a hand ruffled through his hair. They’ve been preparing for this for weeks now, even longer for the CG and it hits him then that this is it, it’s their turn to do this. Feels weak in it,

Scared to death. Has one hand cramped around the barrel of his gun, the other tight around the bag they’d handed out for vomit. Feels sick but keeps swallowing it down. Keeps trying to focus his fear into the water, not what’s waiting on the beach. What if he just drowns instead of getting killed. Smells so strong of smoke and saltwater he feels so sick. The boat isn’t even rocking, just tipping and falling in chaos. Water keeps splashing up onto their heads, drenching them, and he’s cold. Cold and going to drown. Louis hits his helmet from behind, leans into his shoulder and says, “Alright punk, no bullshit. We got three boys waiting for us at home,” Zayn sobs a breath out _can’t fucking do this, Christ_ but the sound of the boat hitting the water covers it and then Davey’s shouting to clear the ramp and it’s so real, it’s happening, he glances back at Louis, lets him squeeze his arm and finish, “and I intend to give them all a big kiss when we get back, including you.” Zayn can’t smile but he thinks about it, _zygomaticus, masseter, risorius,_ the boat hits ground. 

The first line of men are all hit instantly. It’s only Louis pushing him forward that gets him close enough to see the shock still blinking on their faces, Red and Al and Bobby and then James right in front of him, Louis adjusting so they squeeze past them on the side, out the front. Zayn gets shoved into the water gushing at the side of the boat and someone’s on top of him, still pushing outward, panicking at the cold, the water red and salty and metallic, he really _is_ going to drown. Kicks at the sand and then it’s gone, he’s somehow gotten deeper but there’s no one hanging on him now, opens his eyes under and squints through, everything muffled and he’s sinking. Starts pulling at his gear then his hands touch sand and he lifts up, kicks down and surfaces, isn’t deep at all. _Zayn get the fuck moving we have to get out of here_ and he reads it from Louis’ mouth _Zayn. Zayn._ and then he’s pulling him out of the water by the arm. They’re in hell.

*

They finally manage to secure the length of river to the next group’s zone a few hours later. Liam doesn’t know how many men he’s killed or help kill and he doesn’t care to; he knows he’s saved his crew just as many times and they him, as well. It’s down to cause and effect, movements all direct and practical, nothing but mission objectives. The group of men he’s with is full of guys he’s only seen in passing but they’re doing well, have made their way down and around the Merdere. Liam can’t remember what he was supposed to be doing originally. Just goes. One foot in front of the other, duck down when you hear fire, stay alert. _Keep calm, don’t get yourself killed._

The sun rises at 0600 and Liam is sick with it, feels a wave of relief, just simple gratitude at surviving the night. It’s been four hours. For a moment the sky is bright pink beneath the clouds, golden under their bellies and Liam sends a prayer out to Utah, knows his boys are on their way out, if not already, hopes to God Louis is looking after Zayn, knows he will but the adrenaline picks up again regardless. Has to force himself back to focusing on the trees. Wonders if Louis is nervous, if he’s going to be snappy the way he was at basic. Hopes not. _Well if anyone would get the opposite out of him it’s Zayn_ and Liam smiles, catches a flicker of movement in the branches of a tree and motions to Henry on gun duty. Closes his eyes. When the shots fire off moments later he thinks about Niall, Harry, both of them so dedicated to doing the best they can for their country. Big, brave ideals for the two of them, serve with pride and for freedom. Louis and Zayn there because of obligation. Liam in it to prove something. They move on to the next bridge, secure it after another cat and mouse of Nazis hiding out in the branches. The skies over the ocean smoke and burn, Liam keeps his thoughts close to him.

*

Harry’s head is spinning as soon as the beach stretches into view in front of them, the sky already dulled gray with smoke and clouds and the water gray and red with blood. Niall’s sat in front of him, arm hooked over the side of the Higgins boat as easily as if he was back home in Jersey, sailing on the bay. Harry thinks maybe Niall doesn’t really understand the impact of war. Thinks maybe Niall understands the impact of war completely but just doesn’t let it show.

There’s still the sharp _tacktacktack_ of gunfire once they’re closer to the beach, the captain in the boat somewhere behind them yelling orders that Harry doesn’t really hear because his mind is wildly, hysterically wondering _why are they called hedgehogs?_ when he sees the big hunks of angled metal positioned down the strip of land in front of them. And then there’s people shoving him, the ramp to the boat dropping open and he’s in the water. Harry panics for half a second before remembering that he doesn’t have a rifle, doesn’t have a weapon that he has to keep dry, oh _fuck_ he doesn’t have a weapon, but he _does_ have the sharpshooter of their company flailing in the water behind him. He and Niall grab for each other at the same time, dragging each other out of the water and neither of them letting go of the other when they collapse behind one of the hedgehogs.

And. And. And...there’s bodies everywhere. Harry feels like he’s a broken record. Niall grabs his face roughly, forces him to meet his blue eyes instead of looking at the mangled men around them. “We have to get up the beach,” Niall tells him, yells it in his face, but Harry doesn’t hear it. As soon as Niall’s hand leaves his chin, Harry’s mind is falling away to _20 tabs of morphine, scissors in right pouch, dressings in left pouch, pressure on the wound, sulf tablets for infection, medic medic medic_. And he _knows_ he’s supposed to be moving up the beach, he knows, but there’s a man wailing for his mother ten feet away with blood all over his stomach and before Niall can stop him Harry is scrambling away.

“God _damn_ it,” Niall hisses, finally manages to rip the plastic cover off his gun. He pauses for half a second, watches Harry tear open the soldier’s jacket and shirt to reveal a bloody mess on the skin underneath. He knows he can’t do anything to help, knows that every second he stays behind this hunk of metal there’s more of a chance that he’ll get shot. There’s a desperate moment when he thinks _won’t let Harry be the one to stitch me up_ before he mutters “fuck it” and rolls up out of the sand, sprinting up towards the dunes. He prays that Harry won’t blame him for leaving him, doubts that Harry even notices that he left.

Harry’s hands won’t stop shaking long enough to thread the goddamn needle. The man on the ground in front of him is saveable, hit in the liver or stomach or something but all he needs is a few stitches and a dressing and Harry cannot thread the needle. “Why the fuck do they expect me to be able to do this,” he spits, gives up on the stitches and puts more pressure on the man’s stomach.

There’s some officer who stumbles past Harry, but he stops and whips around. “Medic! He’s not worth it,” he shouts, looking like he’s considering physically dragging Harry away from the dying soldier, but Harry just leans harder on the wound and grabs for a morphine tablet, pricking it into the soldier’s side, still thinking about that needle and thread. The soldier dies moments later, his breath leaving him in a stutter and Harry...can’t. Can’t understand why he couldn’t thread the needle, can’t understand why his hands are covered in blood or why he thought this man was able to be healed. The only thing that snaps him out of it is a bullet that hisses past his ear and he falls down into the sand, the man’s body as a shield. He spares a moment to think, bitterly, _how dare they keep shooting when he’s already gone_ , before he grabs for the man’s dogtags (doesn’t let himself look at the name) and pulls the envelope from his chest pocket, the _To: Dad_ on the front smeared from the blood. Harry just _can’t_ , but he does it anyway. Moves over to the next screaming soldier.

Niall sees them take out the last remaining bunker with grenades and flamethrowers, immediately scrambles up the dunes to look back over the beach. There’s still soldiers making their way out of the boats and up the shore, but there’s medics scattered all along the sand, red crosses like beacons on their helmets while they surround the dying soldiers trying to help. He knows Harry’s down there somewhere, alive, and he also knows that there’s no pulling Harry out of it until Harry decides that he’s done. And for the first time since landing, Niall doesn’t know what to do. There’s no more Germans to be taken out, no more exact instructions for him to follow. His best friend is still on the beach and his other three are somewhere, God, they’re somewhere, and Niall is here. Niall is alive and breathing and unharmed but he’s so hollow without his boys. He was okay through the landing and he was okay through the gunfire and he was okay through crawling over corpses to reach the top of the beach, but now he’s crouched over next to the empty bunkers, dry-heaving at the thought of Louis or Zayn being one of the bodies down on the beach. He’s okay with running towards a bunker full of Nazis, but the thought of never seeing one of his boys again is absolutely unbearable.

Harry saves fifteen men with the help of other medics still on the beaches. It’s easier, now, without the gunfire and grenades. Well. Not easier. Nothing makes this easier, but his hands have stopped shaking and his training is coming back, _mercury and iodine can’t mix, use the aspirins before the morphine, morphine as a last resort,_ wonders somewhere in the back of his mind if he’s allowed to take a dose of his own benzedrine for mental fatigue. There’s a lot of little injuries, shot in the ankle or cut on a hedgehog that feel like the simplest injuries in the world to fix. Can’t stop thinking about the thread and the needle, the _To: Dad_ envelope he now has tucked in his canvas pouch. Harry saves fifteen men but can’t stop thinking about that first one.

There’s a general, or captain, or whoever he is, someone who finally rounds up the remaining medics on the beach, forces them to make their way up to join with their companies for head counts and to set up camp. The only thing that keeps Harry from wanting to remain on the beach is the promise of seeing Niall. He hasn’t seen a mop of blonde hair on the beach since the gunfire stopped, knows it in his gut that his friend is waiting up ahead for him.

*

Every time they move any direction they’re fired at. Every fucking time. Louis steps in front of Zayn too many times for him to keep track, it’s a blur of panic and men falling down, not getting back up. Not dead but not crying for help either. He’s struck by it, doesn’t want to think about all of them knowing What Must Be Done, this higher purpose shit they’ve all been trained into, to know better than instinct even at the point of death. The string of thought gets him through ten minutes of waiting, jerky movements moving from one hedgehog to another, stalling, everything around them just getting blown to smithereens. Louis keeps shouting at him, turning his head back to say just _Hold tight, Z_ or fucking _Up to the right, smartie_. They clear the last of the hedgehogs and then it’s blind panic running to the sand bluff, Zayn feels a bullet zing into his pack as he turns next to Louis, shakes it off like he could if he tried. They watch for a moment and try to establish what’s supposed to be next but it seems like no one is making it this far, all struggle sending them forward with nowhere really else ahead. Zayn hates it, hates this war that he’s in the middle of, hates being trapped in it blind, at a loss, Louis needing to take care of him. What bullshit. Later he’ll say it was adrenaline and the heat of the moment, but really he’s fucking freezing and so frustrated he could cry. He gets his first kill a minute later.

He and Louis take turns dragging barbed wire away from the embankment, other soldiers getting through and finally the tanks come, heavier weaponry right behind them. Zayn clambers up the hillside and takes out one last machiner, doesn’t even feel it, then helps Louis up behind him, doesn’t comment on his hands shaking. Feels steadier than he has in days, completely thoughtless just one step after the other; he’s lost his helmet somewhere but when he looks Louis has it in his other hand. He takes it back, sticks it on his head with a little too much force and it kind of hurts but he doesn’t care, is mad Louis is wasting a free hand with a goddamn helmet. It’s not going to do much at this point, is it. Louis asks him if he’s alright and he can only nod shortly, follow that Lieutenant he was watching earlier around through the makeshift concrete the Germans installed at the top. It’s already a mess of bloodied bodies, feels like it’s been no time at all but clearly people have been up here for long enough, taken care of shit.

He leads the two of them down past the trenchline and there’s a group of their men with a couple Germans, Zayn turns away and retches when they open fire like it’s a goddamn execution. When he stands back up Louis is smoking a cigarette, can’t understand what he’s still doing here on this godforsaken beach with Louis fucking Tomlinson, spits out the last of his vomit. His canteen’s been empty for two hours now, but Louis tosses him his and says, “At least get the taste out,” and that’s enough reason for him to take it.

*

It’s just a glimpse of blonde hair but Louis’ heart rate picks up. It happens twice, four times, five times. Everyone is so dirty, blood-stained, sand crusted onto their uniforms, can’t tell anyone from anyone. He’s still got Zayn’s sleeve in his fist, pulling him behind him but not with any effort, trying to find anyone from their company but nothing, no one is recognizable, he’s so tired. Zayn keeps saying shit under his breath, no filter now, _Oh god don’t look over there... was that….. Lou you grabbed that soup, right, with the little…._ and Louis nods along, has three cans of soup in his pack, knows Zayn has peas and crackers, why is this so difficult. His legs feel like dead weight. The sand is all packed down, wet from the rain and tide starting to recede again, but the biggest obstacle is debris, bodies everywhere, pieces of gear and abandoned whatever. He has to look at the ground more steadily than he can look up. It’s just a glimpse of blonde hair. Something about his shoulders.

Zayn says _what_ all irritated and turns to him, Louis distantly realizes he’s yanked his arm around and then they’re moving, and it’s Niall that’s crouched next to Harry fifty feet ahead of them, he sobs once, _no no no_ , can’t, won’t believe it and then Harry moves his head, turns toward them running at him, his smile goes blinding. Louis falls next to them, can’t see for the tears, can’t breathe. Hears Zayn just mumbling a chorus _goddamnit holy shit, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe this, we made it, goddamnit_ and Niall is laughing into his chest, Harry trying to sit up, he’s fine, he’s okay, they’re all okay. They’re all okay.

“What the fuck are you doing lying here, Doc, honestly, thought you were dead, was going to kill you all over again, oh my god,” and Louis is hysterical, can feel himself draining, relief and something so close to joy washing over him, Harry just laughing, “I’m just tired, Lou, that’s all. Aren’t you tired?” And Louis hates him so much he could die, wants to die, they made it through. They made it. They all breathe, take a moment and stare at each other, Harry leaning up on his elbows and Zayn and Niall and Louis, all three of them, quiet, know they’re all thinking about Liam, somewhere out there still, that it’s not over. Louis wants to break the tension, feels like he has to if only for Liam’s sake, _if he were here_ etc, grabs Harry by the jaw and kisses him right on the mouth, tackles Niall next to him, gets his kiss there, Zayn laughing and scooting away, “I told you, Malik, I told you! This was the deal! You said yes!” and he finally relents with an eyeroll and a _goddamnit fine_ , kisses back just a second before pulling away.

*

It’s solemn, their first night at camp. Niall’s just finished cleaning all the sand from his Springfield and Harry is obsessively organizing his kits, mentally tallying how many tablets of aspirin and cotton swabs he has left, all of them trying to avoid thinking about the absence of their fifth boy. Louis can tell that Zayn’s trying to not think about it, just by the way he keep wringing his hands around his little journal and fiddling with the netting on his helmet.

“If you could have anything right now, what would you want?” Harry asks quietly, glancing up around their little circle as a silent way of telling them that they don’t have to play if they don’t want to. It’s just something to fill the silence.

“A radio that plays something other than military channels,” Louis says, his mouth quirking up the tiniest bit when Harry smiles warmly at him from across their little campfire.

Niall kicks at the little pile of sand he’s been pushing between his boots. “If any of you laugh at me, I swear to god….but i think i would actually die for a bubble bath right now.” He pauses, face dropping into something solemn and he rubs his forehead. “I mean. Wouldn’t actually, you know. Just a good shower or something, you know?”

“Bubblegum,” Harry pipes up wistfully. “And not the shit they gave out in basic to the officers, but like, Bazooka. I used to snap my gum in church and my mom would get so angry at me.”

They all tilt their head towards Zayn, who’s scratching into the leather cover of his journal with the stub of a pencil. His brow creases and he frowns hard at the ground, mutters “Liam” before rubbing his eyes and looking out towards the beach. “Bag of Cracker Jack, probably,” he amends, then gets to his feet and ducks into the tent behind them.

The remaining three exchange worried expressions, Louis making to move towards the tent when Zayn bursts out again with an empty metal container. “I need to get sand,” he says, his voice the strongest it’s been all day. Harry and Louis exchange a look.

“Why, Z?”

“I need to get sand,” he repeats, already shuffling past them to try to head towards the sand dunes. He’s stopped almost immediately by an officer, and Niall is on his feet and walking briskly over before Zayn can get into a shouting match with him. They’re told nobody’s allowed past the sandbags set up along camp, can’t afford to have men poking around the beaches in the middle of the night in case the area isn’t totally secure, and Niall wraps a hand around Zayn’s bicep and tugs him back towards the fire. “We’ll get you sand, Zayn, promise,” Niall tell him quietly, prying the metal container from the young man’s hands and tucking it next to his rifle for later. “Promise.”

(Harry and Niall slip out of their tent later that night, Zayn the only one actually able to sleep after the day. They manage to sneak around the back of the empty bunkers and onto the beach, both of them grabbing a handful of the muddied, kicked-up sand and packing it into the little can. They’re careful to not get any bloodied sand in the container, don’t want to even touch it if they don’t have to. Zayn wakes up the next morning with the little metal can labeled _NORMANDY_ in Harry’s hurried scrawl next to his bag.)

*

It’s been two weeks without Liam and Zayn has given up on trying to hide his frustrations. They’re all starting to move inland, closer to French towns and cities in various states of ruin. Niall’s excited at the possibility of holing himself up in some church tower and taking out Nazis, been itching to use his Springfield since they landed. They’re all coping as best they can, not to say that they’re trying to _forget_ about Liam, but just maybe that there’s more important thing to worry about. (Zayn and Louis got into a shouting match three days ago, when Louis suggested that maybe Zayn start thinking about the push to Germany instead of trying to locate one marine who may or may not be dead in the middle of the Ardennes forest. They still aren’t talking.) Louis still doesn’t sleep at night, and neither does Harry, so they take night patrols around wherever they’re set up and Louis tells Harry more things about himself. _My favorite color is green. I’ve always wanted to see the Great Wall Of China. Sometimes I think that I’m not good enough for my sisters, for my mom, for the goddamn US Marine Corps. My favorite food is the Fenway Franks they sell at the ball park, it’s gross, I know._ Harry’s hands shake whenever he’s not occupied with something, has taken to tying knots into his bootlaces to keep himself busy.

And Zayn just...doesn’t cope. Doesn’t bother to, just bottles up his aggression and takes it out during combat. Doesn’t understand why Harry wants to try to save a field of men who were destined to die anyway, doesn’t understand why Louis so suddenly and fiercely cares about protecting all of them. The only thing he can take solace in is Niall, because Niall is quiet and doesn’t give Zayn those fucking pitying looks that he gets from Harry and Louis when the two of them are having their secret conversations by the campfire at night when Zayn ducks into his tent to sleep.

He’s curled up in a church steeple, some bell tower in the middle of a sprawling French village. There’s a makeshift hospital down the road in what used to be a schoolhouse, and Zayn’s been watching stretchers and jeeps and volunteers scurry in and out of the building like ants all afternoon. Niall’s facing the opposite direction, looking out over the woods that lead to Germany, hunched over his rifle and sunk deep into his predatorial side, barely moving a muscle over the last hour. Louis and Harry are somewhere, Harry probably in the hospital trying his best to help, Louis trying to nudge his way into the officer’s quarters to try and overhear what the next plan of attack is. Niall gets that Zayn doesn’t want to be packed into close quarters with too many other troops, and Zayn gets that Niall can’t get too close to the medical tents without losing it a little bit.

“Do you think he’s there?” Zayn asks quietly, not really expecting an answer but he hears Niall shift behind him. When he turns, Niall’s looking at him with a steady expression, face carefully neutral the way it is before he takes out a mark.

“Do you want me to be honest?”

Zayn tugs a cigarette out of it’s case just for an excuse to not meet Niall’s eyes when he mutters, “Yeah.”

“No. I don’t think he’s down there,” Niall pauses, turns back to twist his scope two clicks for some reason, maybe just for a distraction. “But I don’t think he’s dead. I _know_ he’s not dead. I just don’t think he’s here.”

And that’s the worst thing, isn’t it? He’s not here and he’s not dead, he’s just a needle in a haystack somewhere. It feels like it would hurt less if Liam _was_ dead somewhere, if his dogtags showed up in one of the piles of hundreds they’ve looked through. Zayn can’t take _not knowing_.

Niall doesn’t stop him when he gets up, grabs his cigarettes and rifle and storms down the spiral of stairs until he’s out of the street. He’s pretty sure Niall is watching him from the tower, his own personal eyes in the sky, but he doesn’t slow his pace while he jogs briskly down the street to the schoolhouse.

“Où est Liam Payne? Huh?” he snaps at the first volunteer he comes across, a young French girl who can’t be more than sixteen with blood smeared across her apron. She’s startled, squeaks out a “Excusez-moi, qui?” but Zayn’s already gone, pushing his way inside the hospital.

“ _Où est Liam Payne?_ Où est-il? Private Liam Payne. _Américain._ Mon amie. Où est-il? Where the hell is he? Est-il ici? Où est Private Payne?” Zayn’s shouting, now, knows he’s making a scene but doesn’t care enough to contain himself. There’s men on stretchers everywhere, men with American and British and French uniforms, and he’s just about to start going stretcher to stretcher asking in every language he knows when there’s a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Zayn,” Harry’s voice mumbles, feels his breath on the back of his neck. When Zayn turns, his medic is regarding him with careful eyes but a stern expression. “He’s not here. Trust me, I checked. It’s the first thing I did.”

All the energy leaves Zayn’s body in a rush and he slumps into Harry’s chest, heaves a sigh that’s not quite a sob before standing up, putting another cigarette between his lips because it’s all he can really do. Harry squeezes his shoulder one more time, a look on his face that says _we’ll talk later_ , before disappearing back into the thick of the hospital.

*

Liam’s dad never told him that being alone in a swamp in the middle of the night where there very well may be a division of Nazis waiting to capture him is fucking terrifying. Liam’s dad never told him a lot of things, so he’s not all that surprised about this particular piece of advice, but he’s still angry about it. He’s moved on from blind terror and denial and depression to just sheer anger, angry that his unit fucked up their landings, angry that he’s even _here_ , angry that he can’t see his boys, can’t see anything past the line of trees ahead of him. He feels like a little kid again, worn out from a day in the park and wanting nothing more than to collapse on the spot and take a nap. To put it simply. He’s not sure if the sun just went down or if it’s almost dawn, doesn’t know how long he’s been stumbling through the woods trying to find anyone, goddamnit, literally anyone who can help stop the bleeding in his side. Vaguely wonders if being taken captive by Nazis would give him the chance to get some proper medical attention. His shrinking 82nd company left him for dead hours ago, before dusk, after they scattered because of a firefight with Germans across a field. Liam got hit with...something, a bullet, shrapnel, he doesn’t know and he’s too scared to look, but the medic had pricked him with one too many morphine tablets and he passed out, waking up with his side unbandaged and abandoned in the middle of the woods with the body of one other man from his company. (He’s angry because Harry wouldn’t have done that. Harry would’ve stitched him right up and gotten him back to base, not left him for dead behind enemy lines. Liam misses Harry a lot. He misses all of them a lot.)

He’s been clicking his cricket every other step now, too spent to care about who will or won’t answer it. Thinks about how disappointed his father would be, probably say something about _not following protocol will get you killed, Liam_ and, good. Maybe Liam wants to be killed. He clicks his cricket another few times, teeth gritting together as he takes another stumbling few steps. Maybe it’d be better if he came home in a box with a flag, be buried at Arlington so his father could soak up all the attention and praise from the officers. Recalls his father saying _if you don’t come home with any medals, how can you prove you even fought at all?_ and thinks bitterly that if he makes it through this and gets a Purple Heart, might throw it into the Seine just so his father won’t get the satisfaction.

Liam’s just starting to think that maybe he’s got some issues with his father he should work out when he stumbles to the ground and blacks out.

When he comes to, he’s met with a pair of blue eyes that he hopes for a desperate moment belong to Niall. They don’t--they belong to a red-headed man leaning over him, a red cross strapped around his arm as he cuts a strip of bandage and presses it to Liam’s side.

“You know you wandered a very long ways with a piece of grenade lodged under your ribs, mate?” the man asks. He’s in British uniform and his nameplate says SHEERAN.

“Thought it was a bullet,” Liam grunts out, tries to sit up though Sheeran forcefully pushes him onto his back again. “Where am I?”

The medic sits back on his heels, wipes his bloodied hands on a cloth and squints down towards the tent next to the one Liam’s in. “Round Dunkirk, I think. Don’t really have much time to look at maps when I’m too busy saving the arses of bloody Americans.” He raises his eyebrows and nods pointedly down at Liam’s torso.

Liam frowns, hears himself drawl out a “Sorry?” as if the 82nd misdrops are entirely his fault. He’s used to things being his fault, supposes that getting hit with a grenade was probably one of them.

The medic breaks into a smile, laughing as he stands up and gathers up his kit. There’s a dull ache in Liam’s chest, not from the grenade, but because he can’t help but think that Harry needs another medic friend like this. Someone to joke with. If you can even joke about being a medic.

“I’m kidding, my friend. You’re not the first airborne we’ve helped. You’re all in a bit of a fix, yeah?”

Liam probes experimentally at his side and sits up, ignoring the throb of pain that shoots up his ribs. “Bit of a fix would be an understatement,” he admits darkly, but the medic just laughs and tells him to sit tight while they go to radio in for the whereabouts of any American companies that can come pick him up.

*

It’s Harry and Niall that run at him, tackle him back five steps, at least, and he’s laughing, feels fifty years older though it’s only been four weeks, ignore the pain in his side, just doesn’t even feel it. Louis is next, Liam watches him approach and lets him hug him, feels so beyond surreal, just so unreal he can’t believe it. Louis pulls away and Liam catches Zayn’s eye but not yet, has to-- grabs Louis again by the neck and just looks into his eyes a moment, says softly, so he’s not sure anyone else can even hear, “Thank you,” and he smiles at him, says “Of course, Liam,” pulls out of his grasp and then pushes him at Zayn, laughing, Zayn drops his pack to the floor and they meet halfway, feels like fucking Clark Gable and whoever, whatever, holds him to him and it’s more than he ever even tried to imagine, all those days and nights with no one, or no one that knew him or cared to in the least. Can’t say it was worth it but Zayn whispering into his ear _thought I’d lost you_ and _don’t ever do that again_ sort of feels close.

Zayn can’t keep his hands off him later, when they’re out in town drinking at the bar past the one the rest of the company goes to because of the girls and cheap beer. Liam doesn’t want to talk about where he’s been, keeps changing the subject to something one of the others will get excited about; Niall taking out a tank with a well-placed grenade and a bullet, Louis on the last of the books Zayn brought with. He’s got a constant urge just to touch him, just the stupidest small thing like holding his hand, reaching out for his elbow, testing the soft tissue under his bandage on his side, keeps it all eye contact instead. Knows Liam knows and that’s enough. Can feel it in his skin. When they’re headed back to camp late, the earliest hours of morning, lets the others walk ahead a ways and then Liam’s pushing him against the bricks of the building they’re next to, _What’s gotten into you_ and he can’t answer, has no idea himself, still feels destroyed with relief and this something else that’s been distilled out of all of the days he spent begging just to see him again. Has this gut feeling that no matter what happens, in whatever future, just getting Liam back now is enough, it’ll be enough. Feels silly with it, his hands on his waist, bricks behind his head grounding him, _this is real this is real, still here_ and Liam’s got one of his hands in his hair, pulling at where it’s gotten long behind his ears so he really can’t be blamed for it, just leans in and kisses him, isn’t surprised in the least when Liam meets him with the same giddy desperation. Feels like finding him on the beach. Might as well have. Whatever.

They have that moment and of course it’s the other boys whooping from three blocks away that ends it but the memory is already completely solidified. Zayn smiles and hangs back from Liam shouting at them, moves his head just to feel the scratch of the bricks again and steps away, pulls Liam with him up the street, laughing, Louis shouting about what kind of impression they’re making on their allies, if only they were home. 

*

Harry insists on checking Liam’s side twice a day, helps him in and out of his shirt and washes around it with whatever clean water they’ve carried to their tent set-up. The first time, morning after they drink themselves silly, Zayn tries to stay and watch but Liam tells him to leave, Harry agrees and kicks him out of the tent. Zayn only goes because Liam is so serious, and he is. Harry’s breath whooshes out of him when he gets the bandage off and it’s good Harry’d made him lie down because exposing it to air feels like it’s fresh, worse really, at least he’d had his shirt still, some morphine when whoever had initially bandaged him.  
“Who’d you say treated you?”  
“British guy,” Liam breathes out shallow, short gasps because it stings like hell, “Sheeran, Al or- Ed, something,” and Harry only hums as a response, dabs lightly at him and then wipes away what he can. It’s been a week since he got hit, can hardly remember it now compared to this healing process. Keeps thinking it’s going to get easier for them to just change the damn thing and be done with it. Hasn’t yet.

“You’ve got all sorts of shrapnel in you, Li,” quiet like he thinks Zayn’s just outside too, looking at Liam like they both know.

“I know, feels like it a bit.” He’s still breathing shallow and quick, it still hurts _so_ bad.

“And the doctors…?” Liam closes his eyes, lets Harry start putting on whatever cream same as Ed did, keep the bandage from sticking or something. “Said it was a waste of surgery- ahhh, ow- if I can move like this… should be fine-” and then the bandage is on and Harry’s looking at him in a way that makes him nervous, knows it’s going to be one of his infamous declarations, “Liam I don’t know how you’re alive,” and he’s so uncomfortable, grateful and humbled about it always but also can’t let himself dwell on it, just says the first thing that pops in his head.

“Had to get back to my boys, didn’t I,” and Harry honestly is about to cry, he thinks, forces himself to sit up and pulls him in for a quick hug, slaps him on the back and says thanks into his shoulder.

  
As soon as Harry’s outside Zayn comes shuffling back in all shy and nervous, asks a quiet, “Alright?” and Liam nods, smiles at him. He sits down next to him on the cot, shoves the blanket away and pulls him in by the shoulder, kisses his temple.  
“Honestly, it’s like I almost _died_ or something, the way you guys are acting,” and Zayn scoffs, laughing but obviously entirely unamused, “Liam I’ll punch you, don’t think I won’t, I don’t care,” and Liam laughs, “Oh but you do,” and Zayn goes quiet then, suddenly, and the air feels too warm and heavy for him to breathe, feels hyper-aware of where Zayn’s fingertips are each on his neck. Liam doesn’t say things without thinking and they all know it, has gotten enough shit for it from Louis for not defending himself, but Zayn’s looking at him like _of course_ and Liam knows he’s flushing red to his goddamn toes, waiting for him to say something, anything, and when he does it comes out like he’s been holding his breath, “I’m so glad you made it, Li, have I told you that,” and Liam doesn’t have the heart to say _yes, about fifty times last night_ so he just nods, kisses him and it still feels so new between them but not fragile in the least; he’s starting to get a feel for how Zayn without fail will respond every time he uses a bit of teeth, lets him lie him down beneath him and it stretches his bruises just this side of painful when he does it but he doesn’t care, thinks about the scraps of metal his skin has absorbed and if he’ll ever need a tattoo when he’s got that to remember this by. Zayn is so careful to avoid touching his side, keeps his left hand above his chest, can’t think of it as absentmindedly but he’s so focused on his mouth he’s not sure Zayn’s really paying attention to the way his fingers are tracing over his jaw. Can’t decide if it tickles or feels good, really, his stubble has grown in since they’ve been at camp and Zayn keeps pulling at it between his thumb and finger and it’s so distracting but in the tiniest way, all tongue and then teeth, Liam thinks he might die.

They get a five second warning of Harry coming back in with him announcing, “Okay boys, hands off for a second…. or at least out where I can see them, please,” and Zayn breathes into his mouth from an inch away and Liam pulls back, doesn’t break eye contact. Feels like being seventeen in his pick-up with Danielle, trying to keep his hands to himself at the drive-in, or the first time he’d seen Zayn, like it’s all been leading here, however meandering. Harry walks in with his arm up over his face, “Boys am I clear, be safe okay, I love you both but let’s not-” ”Harry, Christ, get out of here,” and he smiles all cheeky at them, “I’m just getting my stuff, joking, joking, sorry, tent’s all yours,” and then he tries to wink at them and Liam closes his eyes, laughs into Zayn’s shoulder as he inevitably trips on his way out.

It’s different now, all eye contact and Zayn mouthing at his collar bone, Liam’s head resting at his shoulder trying to keep quiet but can’t really help it, pulling his mouth back to his with a groan, thinks a stuttered _Christ,_ Zayn’s hands at his waist and Liam goes with it. Trusts Zayn will stop him if he wants to, grinds down against him and the sound Zayn makes is just this high-pitched exhale that catches when he breathes in again, the friction incredible. He plants his knees on either side of his hips and leans back just enough to undo his shirt, Zayn’s hands running up and down his thighs and Liam thinks he might die. Shivers at it and laughs, leans into him again, Zayn shifts his hands to his crotch and presses the heel of his palm into him and Liam says his name so low he’s not sure it’s him even saying it, arches into it, can’t help groaning again when he makes a rhythm out of it, _fuck so good_ and _Zaynnnnnnnnn_ all this desperate energy he’s had built up since the invasion and coming back and still here but not in it thrumming inside his chest, bites at Zayn’s bottom lip and he unbuttons his trousers and slips his hand and Liam is completely convinced he’s going to die, it’s so much, Zayn’s other hand just hardly skims over his bandage and Liam shudders, the pain of the sore skin underneath competing with what the hell Zayn is up to, smiling into his cheek as Liam fucks into his hand.

When Liam comes he doesn’t make a sound, Zayn’s thumb twisting just once around the head and he’s gone, feels himself arch up and Zayn hums _come on, Li_ and he’s gone. He gives himself a moment to come down and Zayn’s watching him with an easy smile, hands resting at his hips and that’s enough, leans down and when their mouths meet this time it’s demanding, Liam wants to take it from him, whatever he wants to give. Zayn’s face is so concentrated when he opens his eyes again, had intended just to see how he looked but his brow is all furrowed and he means it, can see he means this and can’t help it, his hands at the button of his pants and Zayn’s are there too, four hands all in the way but they manage it and Zayn lifts his hips to pull them down and Liam doesn’t have the patience. Shoos his hands and scoots down, place just one kiss at the base of his ribs, not for the first time marvels at the way his bones seem alive beneath his skin, shift as he shudders, wants to make him lose it. As soon as his mouth touches skin again Zayn bucks up again, puts a hand soft at his shoulder and says sorry a few times, Liam couldn’t be angry if he tried, takes him in and Zayn shudders again, can see in his abs where he’s restraining himself before he closes his eyes, focuses on the weight of his dick in his mouth and for it being his first time he has a moment where he knows it’s just a matter of getting used to it but he can still feel the blush in his neck, right behind his ears. Zayn’s hand there. He sucks harder, tries to remember to stay tight and move in whatever rhythm he can and Zayn’s hand at the hair that sticks out of helmet now, pulling at it a bit feels good, good distraction, and then pulling harder and feels like he’s coming up to the surface when he hears _Liam, Li-_ all breathless sounds really good but stops, thinks Zayn wants him to stop and then Zayn’s coming on his mouth. He ducks down again just to catch it and Zayn’s shuddering out a _Jesus Christ_ and closing his eyes and falling back again, Liam swallows, wipes at his lips, the way Zayn’s panting feels like an accomplishment at the very least, if not the taste still in his mouth.

*

The sun is rising and Niall is four hours into his watch: two to eight, on six hours and off six. The routine is hard on all of them but they’re down too many snipers to complain. It’s him and another guy across three streets from here, on the roof of a building at the edge of town. Niall’s in the church tower again, higher up but in quite a ways so more dedicated to his scope. They’ve been expecting some kind of action for a day and a half now after Andy’d spotted a scout in the woods and hadn’t been able to take a shot. Niall’s finding it hard to concentrate knowing the likelihood of them coming in broad daylight now is a lot lower than it was overnight and that breakfast is within the hour and he’ll be getting it mostly cold on a plate once he kicks Harry awake to go get some of whatever the boys scrounge together out of the rations they’ve got.

He’s scanning the trees to the east but there’s nothing, same still forest as all night. He loves the lead up to action, knows every moment that he’s hunting could change instantly and that’s addictive, the satisfaction of taking the target beyond worth the wait every time, but the tension is getting to him, a bit. Checks the windows opposite for Tom across, clicks into the makeshift radio they’ve set up between, practically silent. He doesn’t get a response.

It’s protocol to wait a minute and a half for him to click back and it’s the longest ninety seconds of his life and nothing happens. Frowns and clicks again, maybe he just didn’t hear it, and then it’s been three minutes and still silent. _Tom where the hell are you_. Stares out to the building but the way he’d last seen him, curled in the corner, doesn’t do anything for daylight, he should’ve moved an hour ago and he must have. Niall doesn’t know where though; they’ve been alternating between the roof and chimney and the second floor. Guesses it’s the second floor but there’s no way to check without- he shakes Harry awake, says “Haz, got a mission for ya, wake up,” and Harry opens his eyes and just looks at him a second, then, “Yeah alright, what’s it?” “Think Tom fell asleep, wanna go check?” and Harry grins, “Fuck yeah, let’s scare him,” stands up and reties his headband to get his hair out of his eyes

Two minutes later Niall’s back in the archway covering Harry, who’s got his gun out and is flat-out yawning going from building to building, one street left, and then he’s in. Niall’s smiling the whole time, fucker passing out on him with two hours left, honestly. A minute goes by and he hears the click confirming Harry’s made it to the hideout, wishes he could see the look on Tom’s face when he sees Harry fucking Styles in front of him, laughs to himself. Shit. Another minute, and another, and Harry’s not come out yet. Niall’s pushing down his worry thinking about every time Harry talks to anyone, is probably just chatting him up, that’s all. It’s only been- six minutes since contact.

He clicks back and it’s a moment but another comes through, figures Harry’ll take the hint to get his ass back here. Okay. He does another scan of the perimeter, thinks Tom should be doing this double now that he’s awake so it’s an easy one. Catches movement at the far side of the field, but it’s just a bird taking off. Nothing to get excited about. When he returns to the building Harry’s opening the door out and then leaving it open and going back in and Niall has this spark of a realization _something’s wrong-_ _Harry doesn’t know any code besides-_ and he’s half-carrying Tom out on his shoulder, looking toward the tower and Niall sees it through his scope when it happens, the shock on his face and the pain, can’t hear him but _can_ , the “Shit, ow” he says before he falls.

Niall’s instantly in it, calculates trajectory and shifts up, the open window through across two streets ahead and he’s radio-ing headquarters _we’ve got a man down send somebody out here_ and he’s pursuing, doesn’t wait for a response, knows Andy’s awake and will be on it, then down the stairs, out the door and crossing the street. Cuts through the garden of some house, drops over a low fence with a small, dirtied pond and through the house, hopes there’s no one in it to hear him. The street in front of him is completely vacant, but he waits, lets himself pause and take it in. Glad he does as he catches a sound around the back of the building he’s planning on breaking into, like something falling off a ledge and Niall _knows_ that sound, someone being inattentive to where their shells fall and the brick pavement the French seem to reserve just for alleys. He runs for it, across, and then pauses next to the door, rests his head against the wood slats of the wall. Hopes Harry’s smart enough to sit tight for just another minute.

He gets in, rushes up the stairs silent, takes out a soldier in the room opposite the hallway, facing south, knows it’s the wrong one but can’t risk the possibility of any others hearing the one he is sure of. When he opens the door facing east he holds a moment, takes in the furniture all shoved to the back of the room, a child’s bed and dresser, a dollhouse. Shoots him straight in the chest as he turns from the window. Gets close just to check his supplies, grabs his case of cigarettes for Zayn and then sprints through the rest of the floor, all clear, and is out the back door, Harry three hundred feet ahead of him.

It’s probably been less than ten minutes, less than five, maybe, and Harry knows enough to play dead until Niall comes around. He knows that, but Tom is whimpering next to him and his arm feels like it’s on fire and it’s sprawled limply through the dirt, and Harry’s brain is reciting _infections infections_ on a loop while he puts all his energy into not moving a muscle. So, it’s probably only ten minutes, but it’s an eternity of Harry’s heart hammering in his ears and waiting for Niall to appear somewhere.

As soon as he does, sees him rounding the corner of the building at the end of the street, Harry’s trying to sit up, scrambling across to Tom and trying to reach into his right pouch with his left hand, too focused on saving Tom to realise that his right bicep is bleeding down to his wrists. Too focused to comprehend that he can’t stitch up a man with his dominant hand covered in blood and aching. By the time Niall reaches them, skids into the dirt besides Harry and grabs his uninjured arm, Harry lets out a noise that was probably supposed to be a form of protest but just sounds like a whine.

“Harry, you can’t save him if you don’t have two functioning hands, get this off,” Niall’s demanding, using his Bossy Tone that he only uses around Louis when he tries cheating at Go Fish. Harry’s still trying to tear off Tom’s vest, needs to make sure the hasty bandage he taped on in the tower isn’t muddy or falling off, but Niall’s already unclipping Harry’s kits and jacket and pulling them off to get a better look at where the bullet hit him.

The sniper’s nimble hands freeze as soon as Harry’s arm slips free from his shirt, blood smeared across his tanktop underneath and down the length of his arm. Harry sees Niall swallow thickly, remembers that Niall’s not good around blood, or injury, or anything that Harry’s become so desensitized to.

“I can take care of it, Ni,” he tries quietly, lamely grabs at the scissors and white bandages in his canvas pouch with his left hand and holds the gauze in his mouth, tries to crane his head to see where the worst of the injury is. It hurts though, _fuck_ it hurts so bad, and Niall’s gripping Harry’s good arm in a way that tells Harry that he has no intention of not helping him.

“Tell me what to do, Styles,” Niall says roughly, taking the bandage and scissors from Harry and starts rifling blindly through the pouches. It’s only now that Harry gets a good look at his arm. The bullet just grazed him, but he’s going to need stitches and there’s absolutely no way he’s going to make Niall be the one to give them to him. Niall’s already pale as he digs out a packet of sulfate powder, looks up at Harry like a terrified little kid.

Harry grits his teeth and nods when Niall shows him the packet, braces himself while Niall rips it open and pours the powder straight onto the wound and it burns, hurts worse than when he first got hit. The pain makes him dizzy, and now is not an ideal time to have panic set in, too, but it does anyway, and Harry starts trembling, manages to grunt out, “cotton swatch,” tries not to totally lose it because he can tell Niall’s on edge and the last thing either of them need is for Harry to not be able to tell him how to fix him. The medic thinks, hysterically for a second, _he’s messing up my packs_ , thinks _need stitches need iodine need morphine? No, Tom needs morphine. Need a drink_ before someone smacks him on the cheek and Niall’s there, hissing, “Harry, Harry, tell me what next,” and Harry replies, “bandage, pressure” immediately, instinctually. He needs more than just a bandage, there’s so much more that needs to be done to ensure that his arm won’t, like, rot off, or maybe that’s just Harry, always paranoid and worried that there’s not enough in his medical kit to save someone. Thinks back to the fifteen men on Utah Beach. Thinks back to the first one.

He can still feel the wound after Niall’s wrapped it, can feel the cotton swab tickling against the raw skin but ignores it, gives Niall a series of jerky nods and a rough, fast hug before he can turn his attention to Tom. Won’t make Niall deal with him, too, could’ve had his arm shot clean off but he wouldn’t put Niall through that responsibility. Niall lets him go and Harry’s mind goes blank, thinks for a moment about Louis calling him Doc and thinks that he’s not deserving of that nickname at all. Tells Niall to go call for backup, go find Andy, giving the sharpshooter any excuse to not have to be here to watch Harry get the bullet out of Tom’s shoulder. Niall hesitates for another few moments before he goes pale and stumbles back, makes some excuse about going to clean his hands even though Harry can hear him retching into the alley a few feet away.

By the time reinforcements arrive with two stretchers (Harry giving Niall a glare over his shoulder and Niall sheepishly admitting, _what, it was just in case, it looked way worse than it actually was, Harry_ , _you dropped like a sack of potatoes,_ _don’t blame me for overreacting_ ), Tom is unconscious from the blood loss and the morphine, but he’s stitched up and safe and that’s all Harry needed to do. Niall’s just reporting the incident, trying to explain it all as calmly as he can to some stone-faced general, when there’s distant shouting and horns that make Niall’s ears perk up. Before he can even ask what’s happening, a jeep is bursting through the woods and onto the street, followed by three tanks and another truck full of soldiers. Niall immediately grabs for Harry, terror paralyzing him for a few seconds until he realizes that it’s all American troops, and there’s a familiar voice bolting out _God Bless America_ in the most sarcastic tone ever, and then there’s Louis, hanging off the back of the truck and headed straight for them.

Niall manages to gasp out _what the hell,_ tucks his head into Harry’s chest and breaks down into breathless laughter as Louis and the truck approaches. Louis practically falls off the bumper when he sees them, jumps down and stomps over looking very confused and very upset.

“What’s cookin’, spaz?” he demands, and when Niall looks up from where he’s still buried in Harry’s chest, Louis looks about ten years older, arms crossed and actually tapping his foot while he waits for and answer. Harry and Niall barely have time to exchange a look before their truck full of troops is emptying out and none other than Zayn and Liam come tripping over, equal expressions of shock creeping onto their faces as they take in Harry’s bandaged arm and both of their bloodied shirts.

“What are you doing here?” Zayn and Niall demand of each other at the same time, and they’re all only able to keep straight faces for about five seconds before they’re grinning like idiots.

“Harry got shot,” Niall supplies, and Zayn answers with raised brows and, “we’re about to turn this town into rubble in a minute.”

“Were they not going to _tell us that_?” Harry hisses, glaring over Louis’s shoulder at the huddle of majors and captains talking about positioning the tanks. “Leave us up in the towers, _oh, sorry, we forgot you were there when we blew everything to smithereens?”_ He instinctively goes up to pick at the bandage around his forearm, his brow creased in annoyance as he starts to work himself up into another rant, _you know, if I could put Rommel and Eisenhower in a room and make them talk it out...I’m sure Roosevelt and Hitler could work out an agreement...I’d like to have a word with Patton myself, tell him just how effective his airdrops and village invasions have been,_ until Niall swats his hand away from the bandage and Louis rolls his eyes with a scoff and claps the medic on the back.

“Sure they weren’t gonna abandon you here, Doc. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, yeah?” he teases, though he takes a step closer and his face evens out, looking more exhausted than he has in weeks as he looks his boys up and down. “You’re both okay, though?”

“Yeah, Louis. We’re okay,” Harry reassures him with a smile, and Louis gives them a stern nod before going off to join up with the rest of the gathering troops.

Louis is always _up_ whenever they’re about to go into combat, combat that’s less intense than Utah was but still enough to heighten his adrenaline. He’s hanging off Zayn’s back and arguing with Liam about “why doesn’t the military use swords to fight anymore?” when their sergeant marches over, assigns Louis to the RPG and Zayn and Liam to be on foot alongside the tanks. By the time they’re all getting into position, the scouts up ahead shouting the beginning orders, Louis is absolutely giddy with it. He’s riding up on the armored skirt above the tracks on the tank, which he’s gotten yelled at for doing multiple times before, but whatever, because he’s on _fucking RPG duty_. He wasn’t trusted with grenades back in basic, his officer telling him he seemed “too eager” ( _you’re damn right_ , Louis had responded, and earned himself two weeks of bathroom cleaning duty), but now he’s got the grenade in his hands and he’s got orders to take the first clear shot he can get at the approaching German tanks.

Of course, he takes advantage of it too eagerly. The German Panzers have barely made it into the town square before Louis launches a grenade out towards them, scattering a group of troops just as it explodes in front of one the the tanks. He hears Liam shout something at him, _careful, Tommo_ , but they both know that Liam’s not too worried about it. They both know Louis has been itching to get his hands on explosives since the day he enlisted, as excited as a little boy running around playing soldier on the playground.

“Careful for what, Payne? Don’t want me to hurt _too_ many fascists?” Louis laughs down at his friend, pulls the pin on another grenade and sends it flying across the road. it lands almost perfectly at the front of the tank, blows the treads off the Panzer and the top pops open with Germans scrambling out, the Marines taking them down before they even have time to get off the tank. Louis grins wickedly down at Zayn and Louis, winks at them and sets the pulled grenade pin between his teeth like a toothpick. “Mom always said I would’ve been an ace pitcher if I had stuck with Little League.”

“You were a Little Leaguer?” Liam asks, grinning at the promise of learning some other tidbit about Louis in the middle of a goddamn firefight.

Louis’s smile only widens, grabs a hand grenade off his vest and chucks it in the general direction of the enemy, takes out a few of them. “MVP pitcher three years in a row,” he beams proudly, and Liam can only laugh.

*

Niall follows him into his tent, lies down on Louis’ bed and closes his eyes. He’s back up again in a second when he realizes Harry’s trying to take his shirt off the rest of the way, says, “Hey hang on, let me help,” and Harry rolls his eyes but lets him, “I’m fine, you know. You did alright.” and Niall shakes his head, “Shouldn’t have sent you out like that. That’s a rookie mistake. Stupid.” Sets the shirt aside and untucks the shirt he has on under out for him. It’s intimate in a way that might be crossing a line for anyone else, but it’s Harry, and they just survived a surprise attack, survived the invasion before that. Have come a long way from Fort Bragg. Before he stretches up to get out of it he leans his forehead down onto Niall’s shoulder a moment, breathes shakily but his voice comes out steady, “Niall, I mean it. We couldn’t have known… and I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to cover me.” Pulls back and Niall gingerly lifts his shirt up, over his head and his left arm, pulls it down over the left one and Harry holds his breath the whole time. Gets that stupid shy-charming look in his eye and says, “Wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to bandage me either… or take my shirt off for me… nimble fingers and all…” and Niall has to laugh “Jesus Christ, shut up, Styles,” but Harry just nuzzles into him, plants a kiss into his neck. Niall puts his arms around him and they stand there like that a moment, just holding and being held, feels like he’s giving something to Harry that Harry is giving to him simultaneously.

They get restless as an hour passes by, the sound of gunfire and explosions in the distance getting fainter and fainter as Niall imagines them taking the boundary. Knows he should be catching up on sleep but feels wired still, can’t convince his body to lie down. They eat their own ration set for breakfast, crackers and chopped ham and eggs in tin containers that never seem big enough, would kill for a cheeseburger for breakfast just once, then Harry says he’s tired and Niall wants to clean his gun so he does, sits on the ground across from Harry’s cot and keeps quiet.

By now it’s beyond routine for him but the focus it requires keeps him meticulous about it, removes the bolt and then the cockpiece, sets it aside on the ground, thinks about the morning and feels Harry watching him. He’s curled up on his cot all arms and legs beneath his blanket and Niall thinks he’s lying on his side for once because of his arm, cringes as he wipes the firing pin clean. What a goddamn morning. It’s hardly past ten and they’ve done more today than they have all week and he’s suddenly tired, feels the adrenaline just fade out of him, sets the rifle down in front of him and looks up, Harry’s eyes bright green as he does, look on his face like _well come on then_ and shifts around, opens his arms and blanket all theatric. Niall rolls his eyes, laughs faintly but he goes, just stands up and pulls his shirt off, crawls in. It’s such a small space and Harry is always too warm but Niall forces himself to relax, goes one by one with his muscles to just calm down and slow, get the last of his nerves into something he can turn to sleep. Each of his toes, ankles, calves one at a time. They don’t have any other option than somewhat holding each other but Harry just rests his arm beneath his, doesn’t pull him in as is his standard and Niall knows why and is still mad about it, lets himself have that because he should. It was his mistake and he made it and that’s fine, knows he’s lucky, that they both are, were, with any luck will be, just doesn’t want to forget this one. “You definitely stopped relaxing at your chest, Nialler,” and he has to hold himself back from kicking him, opens his eyes to his goddamn grin, “I’m _trying_ , Styles, Jesus.” and they’re so close he can feel every breath Harry pulls in, knows he’s trying to get him to follow it so he does, one in and holds it just past what Niall wants it to be, then exhales slow. He’s still watching him, the eye contact soothing in a way that Niall can’t remember it being with anyone else, like some kind of drug; Harry smells like rubbing alcohol and that’s comfortable now, too, _war is so weird_ , he smiles kind of and closes his eyes, Harry shifts again and kisses him on the forehead, says a soft, “There you go,” and Niall lets himself drift.

He hears Louis approaching before he actually gets there, has to be from at least five tents away, something about “But did you _see_ that first one?? Perfect hit. Perfect. I was _made_ for grenade duty. No. Grenades were _made for me_.” and the tent flap opens and even with his eyes closed and his back to it it’s so fucking bright, feels Harry sit up halfway and through his eyelashes sees him give a thumbs-up to him, assumes he responds in kind because he just grabs his bag from beneath his bed and then the tent opens and closes again. Harry lies back down and Niall curls into him, head down beneath Harry’s neck. They’ve gotten rearranged since, Niall in the space of Harry’s chest and Harry’s other arm stretched above him, they don’t say anything but Niall can hear him thinking, _go back to sleep, still need it_ and he lets himself drift.

When he wakes up the next morning it’s 0400 and Louis is snoring in the cot across. His mouth is dry and he’s thirsty, needs to shower before his shift and needs to eat. Needs to piss. Starts to move to get up and Harry adjusts, traces his right arm down his side and Niall imagines it hurts, stretches his wound out and stings, but it gives him chills. He turns to him, runs a hand through his hair and then pats just under his jaw a few times, smiles. Harry says _morning sunshine_ all sleepy-silly under his breath same as always and Niall thinks _thank god we’re here together_ and heads out.

*

There’s a shift in Zayn as soon as Liam’s back, so slight that only Niall notices at first. He’s just smiling more, not grinning or laughing like Louis but just smiling to himself over the campfire or whenever Liam claps him on the shoulder or grabs the back of his neck. Between Utah and Liam’s return, Zayn shrank away from any physical contact, Harry guesses it’s because of shock, Louis guesses it’s because they all reek too badly for Zayn to want to be  anywhere near them. And then Liam comes back and Zayn’s just…closer. Physically and mentally he’s just _close_ again, close like they were in basic learning combat and when Niall taught him how to aim and handle the kickback of the rifle. Niall’s missed it. This new Zayn never really went anywhere, was always there, just got buried under the debris and smoke and gunpowder over the past few months.

There’s one night around the campfire, the five of them sharing a can of soup and chipped beef on bread, and Harry can’t stop giggling when the officers refer to it as _shit on a shingle_ and Louis has to smack him upside the head to get him to stop laughing. Zayn’s got his head on Liam’s shoulder and he’s rambling, he’s tired, but the good kind of tired. They haven’t seen combat today but they helped dig trenches and sat around camp, and Zayn’s missed that ache in his bones that just comes from doing simple tasks. So he’s rambling about comic books, wondering if any of the new _Captain America’s_ have been published, asks out loud if he thinks his sisters would be able to send him his copies of _Captain Marvel_ , because he’s sick of reading Marine pamphlets and Harry’s medical books. Nobody’s really listening to him at this point, but Liam knocks his helmet off and cards a hand through the darker boy’s black hair, mussing it up and scratching at his skull until Zayn swats his hand away and sits up.

Niall’s the only one who watches the whole exchange from across the fire, Harry and Louis too busy arguing about their chipped beef and it’s inappropriate nicknames. ( _Harry, we are in the US Marines. You really think having appropriate nicknames for our food is a top priority of Eisenhower right now?_ and then, _I don’t know, Lou, might be nice to have something civil for once_ followed by _Jesus, Doc, it’s chipped beef.)_ He could watch this side of Zayn for hours, wants to sit him down and just let him talk about anything he wants. He thinks back to bootcamp, the nights where Zayn couldn’t sleep and would go on and on about FDR’s politics, the concentration camps that started up in California after Pearl Harbor, his feelings about Shakespeare and trench warfare and if he believes at love in first sight. Just completely off on any tangent he picks up, and Niall loved every minute of it. Wonders if Liam listens to him the same. Wonders if Zayn even talks like that anymore.

The first time Niall’s alone with Zayn after Liam’s return is during a firefight in the Ardennes, somewhere along the border of Belgium. It’s dirty fighting, no tanks or open fields but foxholes and trenches, machine guns mowing down enemy lines from across the patch of trees. It’s fighting that Niall despises, makes him want to curl up in a ball and not move every time a bullet flies by and he can’t see where it came from. It’s also the type of fighting that Zayn seems best at, knows when to duck and where to dive and how to burrow himself into the dirt so nothing can hurt him. They all got split up, Zayn and Niall alongside some British regiment, and there’s a cease in the firing that’s long enough for them both to dive into the trench of one of the other soldiers.

Niall’s breath is coming in bursts, knuckles white around his gun while they slouch deep into the foxhole, where there’s already a British medic ducking from a grenade. It’s the first time that Niall feels paralyzed, can’t will himself to move or duck and cover or do anything that he was taught during training. He just grabs hold of the front of Zayn’s jacket and clings to it, waits for the shelling to stop overhead so he can get out of this pitiful excuse of a trench.

His ears are ringing when he looks up, sees Zayn talking to the medic with one hand on the top of Niall’s helmet, keeping him sat on the ground. When Niall’s hearing comes back, he hears the medic explain, “you gotta bring him back. He’s okay but you gotta do something to bring him back to himself, yeah?”

Zayn whips back around to face Niall, looks desperately hopeful for a moment when he sees that Niall’s staring back at him, but he’s still not totally there. Reads _Niall_ off Zayn’s mouth, and then Zayn’s sinking down next to him, prying Niall’s hands off the torso of his vest before he smacks Niall roughly on his own chest, the same spots that Niall’s fists were clinging to on Zayn. The jolt brings him back, Niall blinks rapidly a few times before he reaches forward and pokes at Zayn’s belly through his jacket.

“You okay?” Zayn half-shouts over the sound of new artillery overhead, and Niall can only nod dumbly, smack Zayn’s chest twice and his stomach once. Zayn throws a frantic look over his shoulder at the medic who just shrugs and nods, and Zayn smiles.

It becomes a Thing. Just between them. Niall can’t imagine this happening all those weeks ago on Utah, can’t imagine even trying to touch Zayn sometimes back then, but this routine becomes a thing that happens before and after each mission. Starts out with rough, audible smacks against their ribcages and jabs to the stomach, turns into something softer when they’re taking off their gear. Little pokes and prodding and Niall mumbling _boop_ whenever Zayn’s shirtless, tries to keep poking at him until he starts laughing or shoves him away. Niall tells Zayn that they should thank that British medic in the trench for inventing this, thinks that he should get all the credit. Zayn just laughs and tells him that he doubts Ed Sheeran has to deal with American Marines on a daily basis.

*

Louis gives up on their first mission into Germany. It’s just the five of them, sent out on a night patrol to get and idea of where the Germans have set up camp, something they were taught how to do a million and one times in basic, something that should’ve been easy. But Liam was still slowed down because of his side, and there were no climbable trees for Niall, and it was late and Louis was just tired. Too tired to pay attention to where he was stepping, too tired to look out for landmines or give orders to the other boys. He just stalks beside Harry and waits for them to stumble onto a Nazi.

“Lou,” Harry whispers, and Louis meets the medic with a worn expression and dark eyes. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

“No _pe_ ,” Louis replies flatly, offering up no explanation of why he’s just decided to give up on doing this mission correctly. He’s so tired.

“Louis, do you have the map?” Niall’s voice calls back from somewhere up ahead, and Louis replies loudly, “No.” He feels Harry jab him in the side, their universal signal for _be quiet_ , but it doesn’t mean anything to Louis now. He sees Zayn up ahead with Niall, both of them stopping and raising a hand in the air to tell the rest of them to stop. There’s a campfire up ahead, smoke drifting through the trees that smells different than grenades or gunpowder. It reminds Louis of summertime, a little bit. Late night bonfires in his backyard with his sisters and their friends. Marshmallows and fireworks.

They’re supposed to stop there, as soon as they’ve located the enemy, but Louis keeps trekking forward, past Zayn and Niall who make a desperate grab at his jacket in an attempt to stop him. He’s raising his gun, aiming it through the patch of woods until he’s got a clear shot at one of the soldiers around the fire, and he’s about to shoot when someone tackles him to the ground. Doesn’t know what he’s doing, panics for a second that a grenade just went off or they’re getting shot at and he freezes, drops to the ground without a fight with his breath caught in his throat, his chest tight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” It’s Zayn, pressing Louis into the ground and digging his elbow into the small of Louis’s back. It’s the first time since basic that Zayn has actually used his hand-to-hand combat training, and if he wasn’t so shaken, Louis would be proud.

“Killing Nazi pigs, what does it look like I’m doing?” Louis grunts out, and Zayn presses him harder into the forest floor.

“It looks like you’re about to put all of us at risk because you can’t _follow orders_.”

“When have I ever actually followed orders, Zayn?”

There’s a pause, and the whole forest is silent except for the sound of the Germans up ahead mumbling to each other, some of them getting up and heading back to their tents. And then Zayn mutters, “fuck you, Louis,” quiet and bitter and so, so angry, and Louis thinks back to that first night at bootcamp, goes still and soft under his friend’s hold until Zayn finally gets off of him. Doesn’t help him up.

“Who’s got the map? Li? Can you mark down where we are?” Zayn sounds different, a voice Louis hasn’t heard from him before, but it’s soft and demanding, and when Louis gets to his feet, Zayn’s got the other three huddled around him. “Niall, can you get close enough to make sure they didn’t hear us? And get a headcount. Figure out how much artillery they’ve got. Harry, keep an eye on Louis, make sure he’s okay,” (and that “okay” means so many things, Louis hears it all in Zayn’s voice, make sure he’s not hurt, make sure he won’t hurt anyone else, make sure he’s still our Louis,) and Zayn settles Louis with a hard stare, a look that says _don’t fuck with me right now, Lou_ and Louis almost launches himself at Zayn. Almost. But then Harry’s hand is on the back of his neck, firm and reassuring, and Louis falls into the touch, slumps back against a tree while the other three scatter.

“Are you okay?” Harry finally says after a pause, plucking a stray leaf off the shoulder of Louis’s jacket. No, he’s probably not. Louis can’t remember the last time he felt like this, out of place and confused, like he’s not even in his own body anymore. He grabs Harry into a quick hug, nods into his chest and then steps back against the tree again, resting his head back on the bark and closing his eyes until he can fully come back to himself.

When they get back to camp everyone is subdued. Louis feels like an idiot and knows it’s all pride that’s keeping him scowling about Zayn but he can’t help it. Wants to go home. Wants his mom to make dinner and to take his sisters for ice cream. He pulls out his case of letters and thumbs through the baseball cards they’ve sent, the envelopes worn down to hardly anything. Practically memorized them anyway, but he’s tired of letters. That’s a lie. Wants so many letters he can’t leave his tent. He flops back onto his bed and listens to the sounds of camp around him, tries to remember the sound of anything from home and can’t.

*

Zayn stalks off as soon as they all settle in for the night, heads to the edge of camp where there’s a set of stakes and a pile of horseshoes, smokes a cigarette just looking out at the dark beyond their tent village. What bullshit.

He tosses a few next to the stake, doesn’t want to be too loud about it and get an actual game started, but the weight of them in his hand feels good, gets through the whole stack and does it again, and again. Get himself worked up thinking about Louis, how unfair he’s being to them and it’s _so_ him to not care that the rest of them feel the same way, wouldn’t be surprised if he’s actively thinking about it, some kind of bullshit _if no one else is going to act like they give a shit we’re still stuck here then I will_. Throws the last one out into the field as hard as he can.

It’s _then_ that Liam decides to make his appearance, smirking at him like he’s busted but Zayn doesn’t care, just rolls his eyes at him. “Had a good record going, Payno, don’t think I didn’t,” and Liam laughs, “I haven’t heard a single one of those hit, Zayn, I _know_ you didn’t.” Zayn laughs, sticks his tongue out. Heads in the direction of the horseshoe and Liam follows, pulls out his flashlight and keeps it trained on the dirt ahead of them.

“So you going to talk to him then?” he asks it quietly, Zayn tries to imagine what he’s thinking but can’t tell if it’s him just asking to ask or having some kind of motive, thinking Zayn has somehow become their leader at the moment. He shrugs.

“I dunno. Probably have to since none of you will.”

Liam breathes out a laugh, “That’s probably true,” and Zayn thinks they should be close to the thing but can’t see anything, the grass is sort of taller here and they’re still on the road into camp but he actually has no idea if he threw it this straight, so.

“Think you’d just be better at it too, though.” Pauses like he’s thinking how to say something else, so Zayn looks up at him. He’s frowning, kind of, brow furrowed and eyes tracing his face. Wants to tell him to spit it out.

“I mean, you know him differently than the rest of us, you know? How he was when-”  
“Yeah. He was a pain in the ass then and he still is one.” Liam smiles but they both know Zayn’s using it as a shield, hasn’t processed that shit yet and isn’t going to as long as they’re still in a field somewhere across the world.

They split up a bit, still within talking distance but Zayn’s sure they’ve passed the thing by now and doesn’t want to get too far away from camp, can always just look in the morning. He’s got his own flashlight out now, remembers using it on the beach to check trenches that night, Louis insisting on not shutting up about Harry being alive the whole time. Louis distracting him from them not having a chance at seeing Liam for days, probably, trying to keep his spirits up even as tired as they both were. Sees this part of Louis that is trying so hard to hold on to the kid he was before he left and is failing miserably. Is glad for Harry, then, just because he’s always going to represent something to Louis that won’t be changed like he has been.

  
Liam exclaims a few moments later that he’s found it, thirty feet ahead of Zayn. “Quite an arm you’ve got when you’re angry, eh?” They walk back close to each other, let their arms brush and Liam squeezes his hand before they part, says a quiet goodnight into the air between them.

*

When Zayn opens the tent Louis doesn’t move, just watches him sit on the cot opposite his ( _Harry’s cot_. Even angry he can still get a thrill out of it) and watch him back.

“What’s going on, Lou?”

Louis closes his eyes and stays mad.

Zayn sighs, frustrated, clearly, and Louis wants him to punch him. Wants him to get angry too and tell him he’s being a goddamn idiot and punch him.

“What, you’re sick of it here? You want to go home.”  
  
And Louis can’t tell if he’s being condescending or just stating a fact but it makes him uncomfortable regardless. _Yes I am being foolish thank you, now leave me alone._

He nods, shrugs a bit. “I’m tired, whatever, Zayn. You don’t have to-”  
“You know who really doesn’t give a shit if you’re tired?” and Louis is sure he’s going to say something about the mission, these people that need them and the country they’re serving jesus christ, he doesn’t need to hear it. Clenches his jaw. Isn’t in the mood to fight anymore, but he will. God knows he always will.

“I don’t.”

Zayn’s eyes flash at him and Louis realizes how dangerous he could be if he wanted to be, remembers the training they all passed, the feeling of his hand on his neck a few hours ago.

“Lou, you got me through Utah. I don’t have time for you to be tired and want to go home. That’s bullshit. We’re not going home soon and if you think wishing it is going to make it happen I want you to think about you and me at Normandy and think again.”

The word sorry is out of his mouth before he can think about it.

*

They’re sent to fortify some church south of Lille, just Zayn and Niall with a group of a few other sharpshooters and infantrymen, orders to secure any bell towers in the area and prep the church in the town square for the incoming medics and officers. It’s dusk by the time they arrive. The church isn’t one of the towering creations they saw in Normandy or London, but it’s large enough that their footsteps echo when they go inside, opens up to a large glinting wall of stained glass behind the pulpit. Zayn’s never been religious, but he can understand the beauty of the chapels they’ve seen. Appreciate it.

Andy nabs tower duty first, leaving Niall stuck with Zayn on sandbag-stacking duty. They’ve just finished dragging the fifty pound bags off the trucks, decide to take a break and roam around the church a little bit. Niall heads off into the worship hall, mutters something about _want to check the steeple_ before he’s gone, leaving Zayn to wander through the lobby and abandoned offices and back rooms. Eventually he wanders back up the halls into the main auditorium, with the stained glass and arched ceilings. He’s so absorbed in the grand architecture that he almost misses Niall, sat stoically in one of the first pews. Niall either doesn’t hear him come in or doesn’t care, just keeps sitting with his head bent facing the large cross mounted on the wall above him. He’s not speaking, not that Zayn can hear anyway, just sitting quietly. It’s the only time besides when he’s hunched over his scope that Zayn’s seen him completely still.

Zayn sits behind him a few rows towards the back, rests his gun as quietly as he can onto the bench and leans forward against the next pew ahead of him. Pokes around the little shelf that keeps bumping his knees, plucks out _La Bible en Francais, Louis Segond 1910 edition_ and flips open to a book he recognizes. _Genese._ Knows the story like the back of his hand in any language, _au commencement, Dieu créa les cieux et la terre._ Thinks about angels and stained glass and _dieu dit: que la lumière soit! Et la lumière fut,_ thinks about boys with blue eyes and steady fingers. He makes it all the way up to _let the water teem with living creatures_ when Niall stands up from the pew, pauses and nods at the pulpit before turning and striding easily down the aisle towards Zayn.

“Good read?” Niall asks, and Zayn jerks at the sudden noise, feels like he’s caught red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar or something. Doesn’t know why he feels guilty, but it probably has something to do with the fact that he feels like he walked in on something intimate when Niall was sitting up there. So he just blinks dumbly up at him, Bible still propped open on his knees.

Niall breaks into a grin and slides into the pew next to him, nudges into Zayn with his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it, or are you going to keep staring at me like I’ve got three heads?”

Zayn closes the bible, keeps it balanced on his thighs and picks at the frayed binding on the spine. “Never really thought about it, i guess. Never knew you were, like, religious.”

Niall barks a laugh, lets it reverberate through the empty room. “It’s not a _disease_ , Malik. I just never really talked about it because nobody ever really asked.”

Zayn decides that’s a valid point. Zayn wants to ask, so he does. “So...are you religious?”

Niall settles him with a hard look, makes Zayn panic for a second that he overstepped some invisible boundary, but Niall finally smiles warmly and nods. “Yup.” he pauses, looks down at the book Zayn’s holding. “I take it you’re not, then. Ah. It’s not really, like a big deal. Doesn’t have to be. It’s just how I was raised, you know? It was something i could connect with when I was little. I was always bullied at school when I was younger, because I had this weird North Jersey accent all mixed up with an Irish one. And we didn’t grow up in the best of neighborhoods. So, Mom made me go to church with her, and I found a close group of friends there. We all talked about enlisting together after Pearl Harbor. It’s just something I’ve always had when I had nothing else.”

Zayn considers this, turns the book over a few times in his hands. Wonders how many little French children have been dragged to this chapel by their own mothers and taught how to read verses. “You never, like, worshipped when we were in basic? Since we got here?”

Niall bites his lip, hiding a private smile like it’s some sort of inside joke. “I mean, yeah. I guess, when I’m alone. I’ve got something else now though, don’t I? Got you boys to keep me safe, just in case the big man upstairs doesn’t.”

Niall’s not talking like he usually does, loud and brash and eager. He’s just subdued and completely at ease, sunk into the wooden pew in a way that makes Zayn think he’s more comfortable in this chapel than he is in his cot at night.

Niall must mistake Zayn’s silence for confusion, because he heaves a sigh and pushes his hair out of his face. “You’re probably thinking, like, how can a guy still be religious now, right? How can there be some greater good that lets Normandy happen. Lets Adolf Hitler happen.” he raises his eyebrows over at Zayn, and when the dark-haired boy doesn’t answer, Niall’s mouth pulls into a sad little smile. Takes a deep breath, lets it rattle around the arches of the church like it rattles around in his own ribcage. “‘ _For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future_ ,” he recites quietly. When Zayn looks over at him, Niall’s looking up towards the large cross again, takes a minute to rub at his face before he turns to Zayn, eyes bright. “I believe that, you know? I think people want to be good. That’s probably the craziest part of all of this, I guess. Can you imagine me trying to tell Tommo that I still believe people are inherently good after we take out a squad of Nazis?” he looks down at his hands, picks at a hangnail. “That’s probably why I don’t talk about it.”

Zayn looks up at the stained glass, thinks about all the times Niall’s taken a shot and dropped some enemy sniper that could’ve potentially cost the allies more deaths, thinks about how pale Niall gets whenever he sees blood. Thinks about _and then there was light_.

There’s a horn outside, signaling all of the troops to return to the square before nightfall. It rattles both of them, but Niall snaps out of it first, claps Zayn on the knee and stands up. “We can talk about this anytime, whenever you want, okay?” he says, gives Zayn a soft grin as he edges out of the pew. Zayn tucks all of this into the back of his head, tucks the bible into his jacket and grabs Niall by the wrist, tucks him into his chest and holds tight. When he finally lets him go, Niall just beams at him, grinning when he pokes at Zayn’s chest and stomach, whispers _boop_ and laughs when it echoes through the hall.

The bible is heavy against Zayn’s chest when they duck out of the church. Zayn can’t help but think that he may not believe in God, but he’s sure as hell thankful to someone that he found these other boys.

*

The more inland they move after the beach landings, the more civilians they encounter. It gives Zayn something to do, something other than take apart and reassemble his rifle three times a day out of sheer boredom. He’s suddenly a “valuable asset,” one of the few translators who made it unharmed all the way up until now, so he’s getting dragged along with officers and generals as they move deeper into France. Most of it is just scouting missions, his commander sending him into a town to see if there’s any French resistance groups still, setting up hospitals or bunkers for incoming troops. It’s the most fun Zayn has had since bootcamp. It’s why he enlisted, and even though he’s alone on these scouting missions he gets to see all the French cities that are still standing and gets to interact with the people, learn how to improve his accent and vocabulary and fully immerse himself in the culture, even if it is in the middle of a war.

He returns back to camp every night with new stories. At first he was reluctant to share them, unsure of whether or not the boys even wanted to hear about his day, but one night Niall pounced on him in his tent and demanded to know, on a scale of one to Judy Garland, how hot the French girls are.

So it becomes a little ritual of theirs, their usual time around the campfire for dinner now being filled with Zayn’s stories from his scouting trips. As time goes on, Zayn gets more elaborate, starts to realize that the boys aren’t just humoring him, but they’re actually excited to learn about what he does when he leaves camp for the day.

“So there’s this little girl who comes up to me when we’re securing the old schoolhouse,” he starts, slow and quiet like usual just in case any of them aren’t in the mood for storytime. When he looks up from his can of soup, all four boys are staring intently at him over the fire and he feels himself smile, raise his voice a little louder before Niall can yell at him to stop mumbling. “She tugs on my fatigues and goes, _ou etes-vous_?, asking where I’m from. I tell her Brooklyn, and she just stares at me, and then asks again. When I tell her I’m American, she smiled real big and asked if I had any _bonbons_ , any candy. Says that _yankees ont la meilleure sucrerie_ , we have the best candy. This girl is all of like, nine years old and she’s calling me a Yankee!” Zayn falters for a moment, realizes that this story isn’t actually all that exciting, but Niall snorts into his canteen nonetheless, and Liam nudges Zayn in the shoulder, silently asking him to continue. So he does. “I didn’t have anything on me, but I gave her one of my necklaces. Just the penny one. My sister found me this penny with a hole through it and I put it on a chain. Thought it was, like, appropriate, you know? My good luck charm from Safaa can be a good luck charm for this little girl. I don’t think my sister will be that upset, either. She’ll probably tease me for being such a softie.”

He lifts a hand up to his collarbone, feels for the other chains he’s still wearing. His mother’s promise ring on a chain. A string with a few wooden beads on it from Waliyha and a little metal flower charm he took from Saf’s room the night before he left. Doniya’s necklace that he bought her at Yankee Stadium last summer that she mailed to him a week before they left for Europe.

He tugs out his mother’s ring, pinches it between his thumb and forefinger before continuing. “So after I give her my necklace, she tells me her name is Annette and she wants to show me something. Tells me, _c’est un secret, oui_? and pulls me out into, like, the little courtyard.” Zayn looks up at them all and winks. “So it technically _is_ still a secret, don’t tell her I told you all, _comprendre_? So we’re in this courtyard behind the school and she goes over to this big row of flowers that are just clustering up the whole area. Picks me a daisy and tells me that her and her mother are growing flowers there to give the to soldiers who come through the town every day. She told me that the courtyard was the only place that the flowers could grow without getting stepped on or rolled over by our tanks and shit, but she’s not allowed to go to the school by herself, so that’s why it was a secret. She told me that because I gave her a present, she wanted to give me one back.” He turns around, rifles through his knapsack until he pulls out the bible from the church, opens it to the middle where he’s got one single daisy pressed between the pages. When he looks up, all the boys are smiling, and Zayn rests his index fingers on his lips and whispers in a shrill, soft girly voice, _“_ c’est un _secret_ ,” and puts the bible away. “So. Moral of the story is, don’t step on any fucking flowers, or Annette will kick your ass.”

They all share a quiet laugh, still picking at the remains of their dinner before Harry pipes up, “That’s a pretty name. Annette. Why don’t Americans have pretty names?”

“You have pretty names, we just say them wrong,” Zayn laughs, nods towards Lou and chimes _Louis_ in a lilting French accent. _Harry_ sounds like _Air-ee_ when it falls off his lips. It makes the medic smile.

 “How do you say, ‘American’s aren’t that bad’?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow and laughs, “Why? You piss off some Frenchman?”

Harry blushes madly over the fire. “When I tried to pull a bullet out of his leg he cursed me off and said, uh, something with _Americains_ and _merde_ , which i know enough to be an insult.”

Zayn grins, translates, “ _Americains ne sont pas mauvais_...er, _méchant_ , maybe.” Says it over a few more times to himself and nods. “ _Oui_ , yeah, _Americains_ _ne sont pas_ méchant _est mieux._ Translates better _. Il avait raison, cependant, les Americains sont méchant. Mais pas vous,_ Harry.”

Harry looks like he snaps out of a trance when Zayn finishes speaking, squeals out a bout of laughter. “No idea what you just said, Z, but _mercy_ anywho.”

“Mare-see, Styles,” Louis corrects tiredly, shoots a grin across the fire at Zayn who just nods.

*

Every other Tuesday that they’re not on the move or in combat is mail day. It quickly became one of the few things that they all had to look forward to, because mail day meant incoming letters and outgoing letters and new supplies and new updates from the homefront on how close they were getting to the end of the war. Mail days, to Louis, meant something from home.

When he first left, his mother tried convincing his youngest sisters that he was going off to college. He never saw the point in that, really, the war had been going on for three years and she was still trying to shield them. His first letter is an apology from his mother for the fight they got in the night before he left. Apologizing for trying to hide this from the girls. His second letter is from Lottie, telling him where the Red Sox are in the standings and telling him to come home safe. He had only been away a month, but it was the first time he considered going AWOL. Jumping ship or hitchhiking back up to Connecticut to be with his girls again.

The letters are longer, now, once Louis wrote to his mother telling her that it was okay for the girls to ask him questions about the war as long as she was alright with it. Daisy and Phoebe desperately want to meet Harry, Louis writing to them about his bad jokes and how he heals people like a wizard. Zayn starts drawing little cartoons for them, a few for his own sisters and a few for Louis to send back to his family, mostly little doodles of Yankee baseball players beating the Sox 6,000 to 0. Fizzy and Lottie send heated letters back with clippings from the newspaper whenever the Yankees lose.

Louis answers as many of their questions as he can. _Have you eaten any croissants? Did you see the Eiffel Tower? Have you ridden in an airplane? A boat? Are your officers mean?_ and from his mother, _are you eating enough? Are you getting enough sleep? Are you making friends? Are you staying safe? Will you come home soon?_ and he replies, always. Yes, the croissants are delicious. I haven’t seen the Eiffel Tower yet, Paris is where all the bad-guys are right now. Planes and boats are very scary. Our officers aren’t that bad. Yes, mom, i’m doing alright. He’s only gotten one question from Daisy, too young to really understand the impact of what she was asking, the question _have you killed any bad guys?_ scrawled out in her young handwriting, that he hasn’t been able to answer. Louis wrote to his mother and asked her to not let the girls listen to the radio when they talk about how many troops have been lost so far. Wishes that his mother wouldn’t listen, either, but he knows she will until he comes home.

Mostly, they send him drawings. Phoebe found a kitten that she drew a picture of for him and Lottie mailed him a bracelet she had learned how to braid in school and Fizzie mailed him an envelope of leaves, some still green and crisp but others crumpled and turning red and brown and yellow, a reminder that it’s autumn in New England, Louis’s favorite time of the year. Louis mails her back an envelope of flower petals. Hopes they get back to the states before they start to wilt. Knows they’re going to wilt, but doesn’t let himself think too much about it. Knows that his girls will appreciate his effort, anyway.

Mail days for Louis are good days. Which is why he’s a little surprised when he sees Liam sulking outside his tent one Tuesday, holding one envelope and looking as if he’s debating throwing it into the campfire.

“Detroit,” Louis claps Liam on the back of the neck, but the paratrooper doesn’t swat him away like he normally would. Just keeps staring down at his letter, flinches a bit at the nickname. Louis is about to leave, duck back into his tent and let the kid be, when Liam pipes up, “it’s from my dad.”

Louis freezes, hand still clasped around the back of Liam’s neck. His hair’s getting longer, tickles at Louis’s knuckles. “And?”

He feels Liam’s shoulders shudder when he draws in a deep breath and lets it out in a humorless laugh. “Have you ever read something and you can just _tell_ how disappointed they are? Even if they don’t actually say it?”

Louis just squeezes at Liam’s neck, hesitant before he finally rounds the bench and sits next to him and waits for Liam to continue. “The last letter I wrote him was before we invaded. He hasn’t heard from me in _weeks_. And the first time I write back to him, I tell him I’m alive, I’ve been behind enemy lines trying to find my way back to the allied forces. Just, like, explaining the misdrops and everything, you know? Real factual. No, like, _hey Dad, how’s mom and Ruth? Have you fixed up the car yet? I miss you_. Felt like I was writing a mission report or something.” Liam just glances over at Louis, blushes like he can’t believe he’s actually telling him all of this. “So he writes me back. Tells me I’m a good soldier, but I should’ve used the whole ‘being behind enemy lines’ thing as an advantage. I think he expected me to like, walk right into Germany and kill Hitler myself. Told me I should heal up quick so I can get right back to fighting for our country.”

This is the most Liam has ever talked about his family, so Louis is left speechless as he watches Liam toss the letter into the fire. Doesn’t blame him whatsoever. “Liam,” he says quietly, the first time he’s used the kid’s real name since his return. His hands finds the back of his neck again, pulls him roughly into Louis’s shoulder so he can tug him into a hug. “ _I’m_ glad you’re back, okay? We all are. We’re your family if you don’t want the one back in the states, alright?” Liam doesn’t answer, keeps looking at the burning paper in the fire,so Louis presses his forehead against his and forces him to meet his eye. “Proud of you, Payne,” he says, presses a rough kiss to the top of Liam’s head and muses up his hair before getting up to go find Zayn to share a smoke with. Sees Liam smiling just before he goes.

*

Harry starts accompanying Zayn on his scouting trips into town, trying to salvage more medical supplies and volunteering to help any injured troops who retreated back to the camp set up there. After Zayn’s story about Annette, Harry has started picking any flowers he sees on the side of the road, dandelions or daisies, and tucking them into the netting of his helmet. He invests himself fully in it, makes Zayn hold his little clusters of flowers whenever his hands are too bloody or full to hold them himself. Zayn thinks it’s something that just takes Harry’s mind off other things, too, and he doesn’t blame him. Decides to introduce him to Annette, if he can find her again.

Zayn starts checking the school each day, the clusters of flowers still as vibrant as ever in the courtyard. He starts carrying candies, too, little tins of mints or hard candy in his chest pocket. Zayn doesn’t often get his hopes up about things, especially not now in the middle of a war, but he can’t help but look towards the schoolhouse every day that they go into the town.

He’s helping to stack sandbags along a newly set-up tent when Harry rounds the corner of the street, hand-in-hand with none other than Annette, both of them grinning with little clovers and dandelions behind their ears. “Zayn, I found someone who was looking for you.”

Annette runs over to Zayn, and it takes him a minute to pick up the translation, she’s talking so fast, _votre collier, merci beaucoup encore, mes fleurs sont toujours là, savez-vous Harry?_

“Oui, oui Annette! Bonjour encore! Oui, Harry est mon amie. Comment ça va?”

Harry watches the whole exchange in quiet awe, smiles with Annette yanks the penny necklace out of the top of her dress to show Zayn that she still has it. She had approached Harry when he was checking bandages of the wounded in the town square, asking in broken English and mostly French if she could help, asks where he’s from and if he knows _Zayn, à partir de Brooklyn? Americain_?

It’s the first time Harry has seen Zayn genuinely smile since Liam’s return, when he crouches down to speak to the young girl, murmuring to her in French about things Harry doesn’t know, but he’d listen to forever if he had the chance. Thinks that Zayn could probably go AWOL without a problem here in France, fit in easily with all the beautiful people and the tongue and culture without ever being found out.

Harry’s only pulled from his thoughts when Zayn looks up and winks at him, stands up and takes Annette by the hand and waves at Harry to follow them as Annette marches them off to the school house. Harry’s heart jumps with childish, irrational excitement at the hope of seeing this secret garden while he obediently follows the pair through the building, into the courtyard and Zayn wasn’t lying. There’s tulips and budding roses and daisies of all colors sprouting up around the yard, Annette going to stand in the middle of it all to show Zayn the new pansies she’s started growing. Zayn’s different here, his focus so different from when they’re at camp or in combat. Harry wonders if this is what he’s like with his sisters, the way he listens to every single word that Annette is saying, even if he keeps laughing and has to tell her, _ralentir, Annette, je suis un stupid américain, vous vous souvenez,_ slow down, and the girl just smiles and takes a deep breath and repeats herself slower so he can understand her better.

Harry stands still in the middle of it all, careful not to step on any stray flowers or try to include himself in the conversation and embarrass himself with his limited French skills. Just wants to watch Zayn interact with people forever, really, see him exist in this sunny courtyard that’s so separate from the beaches or camps or their bunks back in basic. Wonders what Zayn would be doing if he wasn’t here, at college maybe. Teaching, writing. Something smart, something to help people in a way that doesn’t include morphine tablets and collecting dogtags.

Harry’s too busy looking at a smudge of dirt on the back of Zayn’s neck to hear Annette, but when he looks down she’s standing in front of him with a handful of daisies and carnations, smiling and telling him, _C'est un cadeau!_ and holding the flowers up expectantly.

Harry shoots a look over to Zayn, who’s smiling widely when he says, “it’s a gift for you to bring back to camp.”

Harry reaches forward, takes the flowers carefully from the little girl and touches the petals. Can’t remember the last time he actually held a bouquet of flowers, thinks about how his mother always had a vase of lilies on their kitchen table. “ _Merci_ ,” he tells Annette, and she just beams up at him, asks over her shoulder to Zayn, “ _est ce qu'il va bien?”_ and Zayn just regards Harry with a careful look, smiles warmly down at Annette and replies, “ _Oui_ , _il est bien_. _Merci, Annette_ ,” before standing up, makes his way over to Harry and squeezes his shoulder.

“You’re alright? You look kinda…” Zayn trails off, rubs a knuckle against Harry’s scalp before he scratches at his head more affectionately. “Glad she let you see this place. I figured you were the only person who could really appreciate it,” Zayn smirks, drums his fingers against the dandelion-decorated helmet at Harry’s hip. Harry leans into him, fits his whole side into Zayn’s torso and laughs into his neck, watches Annette go poke around the sprouting tulips. “Glad you got her permission to bring me,” he teases, though the joking doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he looks to Zayn. “Instead of, like, sneaking me in. Don’t want to ruin this for her.”

Zayn just smiles softly, kisses Harry on the cheek and tucks one of the daisies behind Harry’s ear before going over and asking Annette, _où est votre mère?_ where is your mother, it’s time to get her home and safe before more troops start moving into the town. Keep her safe. Keep these flowers safe. Keep Zayn safe. Harry tucks the flowers into his front pouch, careful not to break any stems or petals, and follows them out of the courtyard.

*

Part of Harry’s job is to report any dogtags and letters he pulls off American bodies back to their officer to be sent back to the states. It’s something he just does robotically now, loops the necklaces around the envelopes from their chest pockets so they don’t get mixed up and handing them all over to the men at the main medical tent. There’s two tags on everyone’s chain, one that’s supposed to go to a higher officer and one that’s supposed to remain with the body on the battlefield. _Last name. First name, middle initial. Blood type. Social Security Number. Branch, gas mask size. Religious preference._ He’s got his own memorised, and knows glimpses of the other boys’ tags by heart just from laying so close to them and toying with the chains around their necks. Something familiar, consistent, even when each of them was doing something different. _Zain, J_. _USMC._ Louis’s SSN ending in 0028. Liam wears a large gas mask. The click of his thumbnail when he runs it over the _P_ under Niall’s religious preference, wonders what type of protestant he is. Wants to ask but never does, figures Niall deserves to keep it to himself if he wants to. _Styles. Harry E, AB+. 002 17 1967. USMC M. Catholic._

He still has the second dogtag of the first soldier that died, taken in the panic of the invasion on the beach and forgetting to leave it with the body. He never told anyone, knows that the soldier’s body and name plate were intact enough for him to be IDed when he got taken back to the states. It sits like a rock at the bottom of his bag, mixed in with his letters from Gemma and the photo of his mom. He doesn’t tell anyone he’s kept it, partly because he’s terrified that he’s breaking some sort of protocol, and partly because he just… needs to keep it to himself. He doesn’t plan on telling anyone until one night at the dwindling campfire, where he’s turning the thin metal plate over in his hands. Hasn’t read the name, not ever, but runs his fingers over the impressions to feel each of the letters; some stand out easier than others, T’s and H’s more distinguishable than what are probably the P’s and F’s. Feels the _USMC S_ linebecause it’s so familiar to him already, fights the bile rising at the back of his throat.

When Liam sits next to him, Harry jumps, shaken from his concentration on the tag, and it takes him a moment to come back to himself. Liam waits, sits with his elbows on his knees, crouching over to poke at the smoldering wood in front of them. Harry starts speaking before he can stop himself, can’t stop thinking about _what if this was Liam’s tag, what if this was any of their tags, what if Liam never found his way back_ , and he hears himself admit, “took this off the first soldier that I let die.”

Liam doesn’t move, not from what Harry can see out of the corner of his eye, but the paratrooper finally sighs, says quietly, “you didn’t _let_ him die, Harry.”

Harry just tenses his jaw, keeps turning the tag over in his fingers before he holds it out to Liam. “He was from Louisiana, I think. The letter from his pocket, it was to his dad, it was addressed to New Orleans.”

Liam takes the dogtag, squints down at it in the dying light of the fire. Hums in the back of his throat in a way that says, _what have we gotten ourselves into_ , but it means more than just the dogtag.

“Don’t read it to me, please,” Harry murmurs softly, leaning down to knot his fingers through his hair and exhale sharply before he looks up again. Liam just gives him a tiny smile and shakes his head. “wasn’t going to, Doc.”

They sit quietly for a while. It’s far past the lights out curfew, but their officers don’t really care anymore, as long as they’re all within the campsite. The only other people awake are the guys on night patrol, and the captain’s tent is lit down the path a ways. It’s quiet and the sky is open and dark and starry and Harry misses his hammock in his backyard. “If you could go anywhere,” Harry finally says, and it’s half of a question, looks over at Liam, who’s still frowning down at the piece of metal.

Liam pauses, runs a thumb over one of the lines on the tag. “When I was, like, nine or ten,” he starts, passes the tag back over to Harry facedown so he doesn’t see any of the letters, “my dad and I took a trip to Washington DC. My dad knew some hotshot general who wanted us to come down to Arlington to see the new tomb for the unknown soldiers from the last war. Dad brought me, though it would be a good experience or whatever.” Liam looks up to make sure Harry’s still listening, and when he sees solemn green eyes looking back at him, he continues. “So, they had just put this big new marble block on top of it, like, a few years prior. Dad explained to me that it was for all the men who weren’t identified in the war he had fought in. So here’s little ten year old me, with my toy rifle in the middle of Arlington Cemetery, and my dad teaches me how to salute the grave and then takes me to the Museum of Natural History.”

“You’d go back there?” Harry finally asks when Liam pauses, and the other boy shakes his head.

“Not to the cemetery, not ever again if I don’t have to. But the museum had this big elephant right when you walked in. And I just remember thinking, like, Arlington made me feel small, but in a bad way. Like, so many white crosses and graves that it made me feel...insignificant, I guess? But the elephant made me feel small in a good way. Like, even if I’m not here, even if there are wars, there’s still great big elephants out there minding their own business. So I’d go back and see that elephant.”

Harry tucks the tag into his pocket, scoots closer so he can rest his head on Liam’s shoulder. “I want to go to New Orleans,” is all he says, and he feels Liam nod.

“When we get back, we can go to New Orleans, yeah?” Liam asks, loops an arm around Harry’s

shoulders and keeps him tucked close. The _when_ rings in Harry’s ears like a prayer, always _when_ now and not _if_ , and he’s still holding onto that. Reaches over and grabs for Liam’s tags hanging around his neck and Harry examines them thoroughly, a welcome distraction from the one he’s got in his pocket. _Payne. Liam J. Catholic._ It makes him feel better knowing that they’re all so much more than indentations on a piece of metal.

*

For a moment Liam thinks he’s back in Belgium. Something about the smell, muddied gunpowder stuck to his clothes and something else, dirty hay on the ground beneath him. It only takes a second and he’s awake, in a barn in Germany with a handful of guys spread across the floor. The sun is starting to lighten the sky through the holes in the roof and it’s not Belgium, it’s not. It’s Germany. They’re in Germany. Close. Really goddamn close. It’s been days of hushed reports, no one wanting to get their hopes up too soon but it’s so there, beneath every ambush and movement they make. Any day now. Feels like a miracle, if he’s honest, talking in terms of days. He’d passed the point of putting anything in terms of future time months ago, by now completely reliant on one day and then the next, fighting their way out of Luxembourg a week ago and everything a blur since then. Harry’s sleeping next to him, arms curled around himself without a blanket and Liam sighs, throws his over him. Louis has his own and Harry’s, apparently, although Liam can’t honestly assume it wasn’t Harry himself that did it.

The days feel longer than ever, one foot in front of the other, one more hand grenade, ambush. Germany is torn apart. Every prisoner they take looks worse than the last, Louis is taking it really hard. Liam finds himself placing a hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from wherever he’s paused to stare at the ground, or off in the distance, all the time, he can’t seem to separate the war from his head anymore. Keeps taking too long to laugh and Harry watches but doesn’t say much, looks lost like he doesn’t know how to fix it. Liam doesn’t know how much longer they can do this, on a precipice with all this non-hope and not letting themselves rest. Thinks about a bed, sleeping in a bed, lying on anything besides his pack beneath his head. It’s Zayn that keeps pulling them along, takes out his pack of cards and deals out for blackjack or poker. A few rounds in and it’s almost like basic, like they can focus on anything else for a moment. He’s always the first one awake, makes sure they’ve all got a piece of chocolate for breakfast, smiling like it can even be as silly as it is. They pass through a farm that afternoon and Niall scouts it for them with Zayn close behind, disappear while the rest of them stick close to the road in. Liam watches them go into the house with an inhale trapped in his chest, a minute and then two go by and then Niall walks back out. Zayn takes a few seconds but follows behind, something beneath his arm and as he gets closer Louis puts out his cigarette, “What’sat, Z?” and Zayn grins.

They eat the best strawberry jam of Liam’s entire life that night on crackers and then by the spoonful, one at a time each with the cheap aluminum spoon from their ration packs. It’s the perfect blend of sweet and just hardly tart, his mouth tingles with it every time he swallows and he can’t stop, no one says anything. They just smile at each other and eat their best dessert of all time, by the end Niall’s laughing into his shoulder for no reason, the five of them delirious with it. Zayn is crowned hero of the day as they line up their blankets for sleeping and thus gets the much coveted extra blanket they got somewhere along the way. It’s not the first time Liam thinks he might miss this sometimes, as desperate as he is to get out of Germany and Europe completely, wants to remember this, at least, if only this. Falling asleep with his boys at his side and the taste of strawberries in May, some promise at surviving past World War Two.

*

They spend the day with the radio on at every opportunity, even just the two minute breaks getting orders from further down the line. The five of them alternate who holds it, up to their ears to keep the sound quiet. Niall spends more time with it than anyone else, insists that he’s best at hearing things through the static but really it’s just something for him to focus on during the late night patrols he’s still doing. There’s lots of rumors about the war ending soon, stories filtering in the closer they get to Berlin of horrible death camps and Nazi officers fleeing to avoid execution. The day they learn that Hitler has been assassinated, there’s a sigh of relief from every single troop gathered around the tinny radio. By May 2nd, everyone is restless, complaints from both infantrymen and officers about why aren’t they home yet, why isn’t this over yet, what’s taking so long. Niall takes it in stride. Keeps cleaning his Springfield, keeps up with his scouting patrols. They’re hardly fighting anymore, any Germans they come across immediately dropping their guns and surrendering, just as tired as the Allies are. It all happens so fast, other soldiers in their unit writing letters and packing up their things and getting ready to be shipped home at any moment. Niall is still a constant, knows that it’s not over until it’s over and he’s going to keep doing what he’s been told to do until he’s told to stop.

Harry’s job is the only one that doesn’t lessen at all during this week, there’s still soldiers to be treated and he doesn’t pay attention to the radio much. The war could have ended a month ago and he’d still have men to take care of. Surrender doesn’t mean everyone is magically healed, so Harry just keeps working.

Louis is the one who has to drag Harry away from the medical tent one afternoon, it’s a Monday, he thinks, doesn’t really pay attention anymore anyway, and forces them all to gather around one of the radios in the officer’s tent, the one with the clearest reception. Niall’s there, too, being held in place by Liam, both of them staring warily down at the metal box when it finally starts to crackle.

The entire camp is still when Churchill’s grainy voice trickles out of the radios. “Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, but in the interests of saving lives the 'Cease fire' began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today."

Everything is frozen for another ten seconds and then everyone erupts. Louis is jumping into Harry, not really hugging or grabbing but just jostling everyone, grabbing Zayn’s cheek and kissing him just like that first day on the beach, and Liam is smiling to himself, wraps Niall into a proper hug and Harry just starts laughing. Officers are trying half-heartedly to calm everyone down, _we’ve still got nine hours of war left, boys,_ but they’re not even serious, shaking hands and slapping the backs of other majors and captains.

  
It’s nine hours of celebration. Even the injured guys in the medical tent are joking around and grinning while Harry injects them with more morphine or sticks them with more stitches. It hasn’t hit Harry yet. He carried Louis around on his back through camp and he split the last chocolate bar with Zayn and Liam had roughly kissed his forehead before going off to follow Louis to the main celebrations, but he’s back at work now. Surrender doesn’t mean he can neglect the hurt ones.

Niall’s disappeared off somewhere, too. It’s Zayn who finds him, half-expected him to be drinking with the other troops with the bottles of French wine they’ve been hoarding from all their raids of the villages. But Niall’s off on his own, setting up a row of bottles and jars on a fence and then retreating back a few hundred yards to where Zayn is watching him.

“Thought you’d be in the thick of the party,” Zayn says with a soft smile, and Niall just shrugs, crouches against some crates and aims his rifle down at the jars. Zayn stills when he realizes this is probably the last time he’ll ever watch Niall shoot like this. It’s bittersweet, watching Niall take out every glass container down on the fence with ease, his shoulderblades rising and falling with each deep breath he takes. Barely flinches at the kickback of the rifle. When all the glasses are gone Niall winks over his shoulder at Zayn, stands up to kick at the metal shells around his feet.

They stand there for a few seconds before Zayn grabs Niall’s hand and it starts as a shake but Niall pulls him in for a hug, holds him tight and feels his lips brush his neck before they pull away, hands still clasped together.

Zayn starts laughing, not for any real reason, and Niall looks like he’s about to ask what’s up when Zayn finally recites quietly, “ _Or la foi est une ferme assurance des choses qu'on espère, une démonstration de celles qu'on ne voit pas_.”

Niall frowns, takes a moment to register it before he breaks into the brightest grin Zayn’s ever seen. “Hebrews, innit? Uh,” snaps his fingers with his free hand, looks up at the sky until he remembers. “Faith is the assurance of things you have hoped for, the absolute conviction that there are realities you’ve never seen.”

Zayn just gives him a small smile, nods and shakes his hand again. “We made it, Ni,” he finally says. “All of us made it, didn’t we?” Niall only starts laughing when Zayn starts laughing, both of them hysterical with relief and disbelief as they hook their arms around each other’s shoulders and march back into camp.

Niall takes his last night watch that evening. Knows he doesn’t have to but takes it anyway, settles into the post with a watch and his gun. Half the camp is still awake, eager to celebrate the midnight surrender properly, and the other half is getting their first night of solid sleep in months. It’s 11:30 when the shouting and singing from camp picks up somewhere in the distance, but Niall just leans against the makeshift post and smiles to himself, digs his knife into the soft wood. Enjoys the last half hour of wartime before he’s free. It makes him think of New Year’s Eve when he was younger, struggling to stay awake just to celebrate with his family. Thinks about the time difference, four or six hours he thinks, wonders if his folks back in the states know that he’s about to just become Niall again. Not a soldier or a sharpshooter or any of the nicknames he’s been called by so many people. It’s 11:59 and it’s his last two minutes as Niall The Solider. It’s hardly enough time to wonder if he’s going to miss this, thinks _might miss the boys most of all_ , thinks _thank fuckin’ God_ , and then there’s shouting and singing and excitement exploding from camp behind him all over again. Smiles to himself, finishes scratching _NH_ into the scouting post with his pocketknife, and heads back to his boys a veteran.

*

Liam asks the cabdriver to turn off the radio on the ride back to his parent’s house. Being back on American soil feels too good to be true, he keeps expecting the radio to announce that they have to go back over to Europe immediately, or that this is all a dream. Feels like his stomach is doing somersaults, the last time he felt like this was before he jumped out of an airplane almost a year ago. He’s got reloading his rifle and diving into trenches committed to muscle memory, but he’s not sure if he’ll remember how to turn the doorknob on the house, recalls how it sticks and he’ll have to give it a bit of a shove to get it open.

The cab driver drops him at the sidewalk, refuses to take Liam’s money because _you saved our country_ or whatever, he’s got a thick Irish accent, Liam doesn’t hear him. Misses Niall so much, feels like he got hit with another grenade. Can’t believe he’s not dead. Goes around to the trunk and gets his things, has two outfits of civilian clothes and a bunch of papers, his passport’s somewhere. The cab drives off and then it’s just him. Wishes he was dead. Takes a deep breath and wonders if this is how the other boys felt storming the beaches, _one two three go_ and he walks up the driveway. Feels like he should knock, even though it’s his own house. The door’s locked anyway, it’s kind of early even though he knows his dad is probably awake, reading the paper in his recliner like he’s always done. So Liam knocks.

It’s Ruth who answers first, and Liam realises he’s missed her most of all. Wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to open the door, honestly, and he’s dropping his bag and gathering her up into his arms and she’s already crying. Neither of them say anything, and Liam’s grateful for that, just clings back to her until he hears footsteps down the hall and he doesn’t want to look up, but he does.

He sees his mother say _Liam_ , still doesn’t hear it, it’s like he’s shell-shocked all over again, ears ringing like they did when he was alone in the woods. She approaches him like he’s someone unfamiliar, a wild animal she’s scared is going to snap or something. Liam manages a smile, knows it doesn’t look quite right on his face but it’s enough for his mom and she bounds the last few steps towards him and he wraps her arms around her tightly. Focuses on the tiny yellow flowers on her sundress so he doesn’t have to look at his father just yet. He’s not sure if it’s his mother or him who’s trembling harder.

As soon as he meets his father’s eye, he’s suddenly desperate for regular clothes. He’s still wearing his uniform, his hat laying somewhere behind him from when he hugged Ruth but the fatigues are suffocating now in this house. Had to keep them on all through the docking in NYC, for the whole trip out here, like a security blanket, but now he wants them off. Wants to burn them in the backyard or stuff them in a drawer because his father looks so goddamn _proud_ , like he thinks Liam wore the uniform home for him.

“Liam,” is all his dad says. Liam’s never had a panic attack before, not when he jumped out of a plane or when he got his side torn open from a grenade or when he was alone in a forest full of Nazis, but he absolutely cannot breathe right now. It would be okay if his father looked at him more like a son and less like some sort of trophy. Liam’s a statue when his dad finally strides forward, grips his hand in a firm shake before leaning down to pick up Liam’s hat. Looks at it with more adoration than he looks at Liam with.

His mom and sister are silent on either side of him, Ruth looking at her father and Karen looking at Liam. Liam takes the high road. Knows his father never will, so he just smiles warmly and says, “Thanks, Dad,” letting his words cut sharp and quick but his dad doesn’t pick up on the tone of his voice at all. His mother squeezes Liam’s shoulder and then ushers them all into the living room, and suddenly it’s like it never happened. She’s asking what they want for lunch (brunch? breakfast? Liam wonders if he remembers how to read a clock that isn’t running on military time) and asking Liam if he needs any laundry done. His father sinks into the recliner with the paper, sets Liam’s hat down on the coffee table. It’s such a shock of normalcy that Liam has to excuse himself to the bathroom, can’t remember which faucet is hot and which is cold, turns them both on anyway. He’s pulling off his fatigues until he’s standing in his briefs and t-shirt, yanks up the shirt to probe at the messy scars on his side. They look worse here, somehow, washed in the bright artificial light of a real bathroom instead of covered in blood and dirt with Harry’s hands touching it every night before there’s no more sunlight to see it by. Wants Harry here now, almost wishes his side was still a wreck just so Harry could touch the skin under his ribs, warm and reassuring in a way that was different from his sister’s hug.

He leaves his uniform in a pile on the bathroom floor, knows his father will give him shit for it later, probably, but doesn’t care, just picks up his bag from the doorway and climbs the stairs to his old bedroom. Maybe wants to break something. Figures that he might as well kick himself while he’s down, remembers his father’s stories about _yeah, some boys just never readjusted after what they saw in the trenches, i was lucky I guess_ and thinks bitterly about how his father only served for three months. His bedroom is exactly how he left it, a museum of a younger Liam who still thought tanks and soldiers and violence were exciting. Misses Zayn’s stack of books from basic and the quiet clicking of Niall reassembling his gun.

He starts dismantling his room. Takes down the patriotic posters about _Buy War Bonds!_ and propaganda about the impending German takeover, newspaper clippings about the draft and Hitler’s rise to power. Can’t even remember why he kept them in the first place. Wants to burn them now, but doesn’t, figures he’ll stick them in a dusty box somewhere and never look in it again. Will only drag it out when he’s got kids or grandkids who want to join the army and he can show them the knot of pale skin on his side and this box full of posters that changed his life. He spends a long time in his room until it’s stripped of everything but his bed and nightstand. Finally sits on his mattress and cradles his head in his hands, doesn’t want to unpack yet because he feels like he has to leave soon.

 His mom makes macaroni and cheese and garlic bread and all Liam can think about is _if you could have any meal right now, what would it be_. He eats two bowls and vomits later, can’t keep it down out of apprehension or just his body not used to having a real meal in ten months. Wants to call Harry and ask him if he’s had his mint chocolate chip ice cream yet. Liam never thought he would miss chipped beef and stale saltines, but he ends up sneaking down to the kitchen later to eat half a box of crackers from the pantry.

*

The city is a mess of soldiers fresh from Europe besides them, must be thousands trying to make sense of New York after months and years in the dirt and snow of wherever. Zayn tries his best to keep his patience but he nearly loses it as his cab slams to a stop in front of a bunch of men stumbling inches from the hood of the car, drunk at one in the afternoon. He sighs, taps a finger on the armrest. Restless, anxious, can’t shake the image of New York looking like anywhere in Europe does, bombed out and smoking. Seems like he blinks and they’re in Brooklyn, then pulling up to home, _home_ , and his hands are shaking when he pays the driver, grabs his bag from the trunk and stands in the middle of the street just a moment, stares at the front windows open to let what little breeze there is inside. He’d told them they’d get in sometime today but that he didn’t know what time, isn’t sure who will even be here as he walks up the steps and knocks on the door.

The first sound he hears besides the noise of the city behind him is someone screaming, Safaa, he thinks, and he starts laughing so that when the door bursts open he’s vulnerable, nearly topples over when she leaps at him. He twirls her around a few times and she’s grown up a bit, just enough to feel different in his arms, still the same smell in her hair though, still the same. When he sets her down he rests his hands on her shoulders and just takes her in, all the months of imagining her big brown eyes focused on the paper she was writing whatever letter on, her hair not in pigtails now, just resting on her shoulders. She’s cut it shorter, so it’s not down her back and she looks older, finds himself blending the memories he’d relied on to create her in his head with the way she looks now as she makes a face, “Zayyyyyyn you’re being weird, come on, come in. Doniya had an interview so her and Mom should be back soon.” Thinks briefly of Louis and his sisters, a few hours from now when he steps off his train. Picks up his bag from the concrete, can’t take his eyes off her even as she drags him inside.

There’s a bark from outside and Zayn feels like his heart is swelling, gives Safaa a pleading look and she just grins, nods and lets him go. He drops his bags in the middle of the hallway, tries not to sprint through the house but ends up running to the back door anyway. Annie barrels into him as soon as he slides the backdoor open and he grabs her, gathers her up against his chest even though she’s forty pounds of wiggling fur and claws. He’s only able to hold her for a few seconds, lets her lick his face and hands and neck until she’s squirming so much he lets her go and sits down in the grass. The last time he heard her cry was when she was a puppy the first night he brought her home, but she’s crying now, high-pitched whines and little barks as she buries herself into Zayn’s chest and licks at his chin. He kisses her head, smiling so hard it hurts and keeps mumbling _hi, girl, missed you, love you, hello sweetheart_ when he scratches around her ears and neck and she just keeps pushing herself against him, like she’s holding him on the ground so he won’t get up and leave ever again.

Safaa comes outside after a while, Annie calmed down and laying in Zayn’s lap licking at his fingers. “She missed you so much,” she laughs, scratches down the dog’s back and smiles up at Zayn, like she can’t believe he’s really home. Nudges his boot with her bare foot. “She’s slept on your bed every single night since you left.”

He gets into a routine, sort of, gets his old job at the library back for the summer and informs NYU he’ll be attending in the fall, sees some of his old friends, visits others’ families. Tries to keep up with himself. Gets a letter back from Harry that starts _Zayn I walked into the house and your goddamn letter was waiting for me. USPS does a better job with paper than the Army does with men, what does that say to you? Miss you as well. It’s hot here, I’d forgotten how humid it gets in the summer. Mom says hi._ and it’s a long few days before he hears from anyone else until his mom calls him into the kitchen after dinner, says the phone is for him. He takes the receiver from her and says a quick, “Hello?” and of course, “Hi, Zayn,” it’s Liam, smiling as he says it and Zayn knows the sound of that smile, his eyes all crinkled and soft. It takes a minute of small talk, asking after family and how the trip back was, to sense Liam’s relief through the wires, seems Zayn’s not the only one missing it, a little, hopes Liam’s better than he’s letting on.

It’s long distance so they don’t talk long, Zayn gets the impression he’s just calling to hear his voice more than anything so he does his best to talk a lot, puts Annie on for a second just to breathe into the receiver. Liam’s laugh makes the drool worth it.

*

Harry’s mom picks him up at the train station in Cincinnati. He can’t remember the last time he smiled so much that his entire face hurt. It’s a five hour drive back to St. Louis and Harry worries, for three seconds, that it’s going to be uncomfortable. But his mom packs up his bags in the trunk and he slips into the passengers seat and it’s like nothing has changed, she’s telling him about how Gemma is doing in school and how Barbara from the bakery knows he’s coming home and she doesn’t once ask about anything that happened overseas. Harry knows she’s probably gotten letters about him, knows that it’s routine for when a soldier is wounded that they send a letter home to the family (he’ll argue still that his arm was hardly a “wound”, just a scratch, really, nothing to make a big deal about once it was bandaged properly, but he knows that his mother probably has the letter tucked away somewhere, wonders if she panicked or if she just had faith that he would pull through). But she doesn’t ask and he doesn’t offer to tell her just yet. Knows that as long as he’s alive and breathing with most of his limbs intact, his mother will wait and let him tell her the story when he’s ready. Harry really wishes his mother could meet Niall.

“I brought you back presents,” Harry finally says once his mother’s run out of things to talk about. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but Harry still feels the need to fill it, needs to reassure his mother that he’s still the same son that left home a year ago. Anne just raises an eyebrow, casts a sideways glance at him and waits for him to continue because she knows his stories are never over that quickly.

“Zayn and I--he was my friend--” and _God_ , that doesn’t even begin to cover what Zayn is (was?), does it? Friend?--”he was a translator, so he met this little French girl who grew flowers for the soldiers.  I have some flowers that I kept pressed in my journal. Brought you some seashells too, from the beaches in France. Not the ones we stormed because everything was so….. but they’re from a beach north of where we were, had a day off where we walked along the dunes. The sea was beautiful over there, Mom.”

Harry tells her other tidbits of stories, ones that aren’t attached to anything bloody or bad. Talks about Louis and his nicknames, the strawberry jam from Zayn and watching the sunrises. It feels like he’s ten years old again, telling her stories from summer camp. Ignores the coppery taste in his mouth and the weight of the first soldier’s dogtag in his chest pocket, sits on his hands so he won’t fidget.

It’s simple when they get back to the house, Gemma flings herself at him and Robin shakes his hand and pulls him into a hug. Everything in the house is just as Harry remembers it, familiarity flooding back as he unbuttons his jacket and lays it over the back of the couch. Anne kisses his cheek and tells him she’ll get lunch ready soon, and there’s a letter waiting for him on the kitchen table.

It’s from Zayn and Harry’s laughing before he even opens it, runs his thumb over the Postal Service stamp in the corner that says it was mailed from somewhere in America. There’s no return address, but the stamp says it was mailed out of New York. When he opens it, it’s dated from a week ago when they were still on the ship coming back. _Harry--you’re sitting across from me right now arm wrestling with Niall and I’m thinking about how much I’m going to miss you idiots._ Harry remembers it, one night in the mess hall when Zayn was bent over a notebook, smiling down at the page while he wrote. Something catches in Harry’s throat, has no doubt that Zayn mailed out letters to the four boys the moment he saw an American mailbox. He tucks the letter into his pocket, doesn’t want to read it all just yet. Instead goes over to his mom by the stove, kisses her on the head and tells her he’s going out back. He knows he doesn’t need to tell her that but feels like he has to, wants to reassure her and himself that he’s only going to be a few hundred feet away this time.

Harry slides out the side door, circles around to the backyard with his main rucksack and toes off his boots, sinks into the old hammock strung up between the trees. He just sits for a few minutes, dragging his socked feet over the dirt underneath him and wringing the straps of his medical kit. He finally unbuttons the front canvas pouch and counts everything for the last time. Six tabs of morphine left, scissors in the right pouch. The remaining dressings are worn and cut-up in the left pouch. Nine packets of sulf powder left. He closes his eyes, lets the panic wash over him for a minute that he’s going to still need these things, that someone’s going to shout _medic_ and he’s not going to have any bandages left. And then he opens his eyes again and he’s home, sets the kit down next to his boots and lays back in the hammock for a well-deserved nap.

*

When he recognizes the lights of Jersey City coming through the bus window Niall is miraculously still awake, sits up in his seat from where he’s sunk into it. They’d waited an hour before leaving the station for God knows what reason after spending the whole afternoon in the depot waiting for the first bus that had any tickets left for him and the exhaustion had finally caught up to him, felt it settle deep in his bones. He’s got ten minutes left of service, at most, and he’s home, and the city looks like a dream.

His dad is waiting outside the car when he hops off the last step, pretends not to notice him wiping at his eyes as he walks toward him. They stand a moment just in front of each other and Niall lets him look him over, gets a nod and then they’re smiling into each other’s shoulders. “Hey, dad.” “Welcome home, Niall. I’m so proud of you.” If there’s anything that makes him feel like it’s finally over but things aren’t the same, it’s those words. His dad isn’t one to just say things like that, not that Niall doesn’t know he loves him, but

They’re pulling up to the house in what feels like a second; he’s been distracted by the music on the radio and the headlights of all the cars still out at midnight, wonders how many of them have a vet or two in them and then his mom is running toward him and he has to physically catch her when she leaps at him. She doesn’t let go of him until they’re inside, carries her through the front door while she comments about how strong he is now. Feigns dropping her, just a bit, and she smacks him on the arm, “Ey, take care of your mother, you.” They drink a whole bottle of champagne just the three of them, and Niall sits at his spot at their table and and sends up the strongest thank you prayer he’ll ever pray, he thinks. Sleeps eighteen hours through once he finally gets to bed.

He spends a solid week going out every single night, every day brings home a familiar face and the ones that aren’t coming back he visits their families, just a coffee in the afternoon or a drink with whoever’s sister. He sees Mary in the movie theater one night and gives her a nod but doesn’t speak to her, can’t remember what he really wanted from her in the first place, years ago now.

*

The bus from Manhattan to Hartford drops Louis at the end of his street. There’s an old crosswalk painted onto the asphalt, recalls his mom always saying _don’t ride your bike past the paint_ and using it as home base when all the kids in the neighborhood would come by to play baseball in the street. His house is wedged in the middle of the block but he knows every crack in the sidewalk, every bit of raised pavement and it still takes him 157 steps from the corner to get there, walks up and opens the door without any hesitation.

His mom’s there first, poking her head around the corner from the kitchen down the hall and then yelling, the sound of a pot or pan clattering onto the counter and then she’s shuffling down the hall and gathering him up in her arms. She wrote in one of her letters months ago that she was pregnant again and he never really processed it until now, grins down at her swollen belly and god, he’s been gone for so long. Jay is crying before the other girls can even make it down the stairs, Daisy barrelling straight into him and then it’s a dogpile, four squealing girls clinging to every available part of him. They end up dragging him to the floor right there in the hallway, Phoebe crawling into his lap and Fizzy already poking through his bag, all four of them talking over each other. Jay stands above it all, wipes at her eyes and winks at Louis before going back to the kitchen, starts clinking pots and pans around again and Louis closes his eyes to all of it for a moment until someone’s pulling at his arm and Lottie’s demanding he get up before he falls asleep right there. She was always best at telling when he was tired.

He doesn't tell his mom much, though he knows she wants to ask. Jay was never very good at subtlety, and by the end of dinner that night she's asking if he's going to keep in touch with any of the boys he wrote about in his letters ("that Harry boy seems nice?") and he has to leave the table, stalks up to his room and suddenly hates how childish it all still is. He ends up sleeping on the couch. It goes on like that for the first week he's home, Jay getting less and less ambiguous with her questions and Louis feeling more and more caged in. He blurts one night in the backyard over a campfire that he wants to move out and it makes his mother cry and he feels terrible for two days, but he knows he can't stay here forever. Not with the way that Fizzy looks at him from the kitchen some nights and the way that Daisy asks why Louis is so quiet now. He won't answer his mom's questions about what happened over there, he can't, and he's feeling less like her son and more like a veteran with nowhere to go. It's exhausting and it makes him restless.

*

Liam wakes up to the sound of the baby six rows back crying again as the train grinds to a stop. They’re in a full station and it takes a second for him to realize they’ve made it to DC. He lets the other passengers exit before standing up, takes his time to get his bag from overhead and then squeezes through the door.

He’s only got two days between this train and his train home Sunday night, couldn’t get more than the weekend and Monday off with the contract he’s on with whatever idk that was too many words, but that’s fine, has to be. Niall and Louis had had the same problem, though Zayn’s off for the summer with school being out and Harry hasn’t really settled since. He takes a cab from the station more because he’s anxious to get there than not wanting to risk a bus, tells the cabbie the address, “It’s a motel, Judy or Janet’s or something, I can’t remember,” or Louis couldn’t, last time they’d talked. “It’s right like four blocks from the archives building, I pass it every time I’m in DC, you’ll be fine, Li. Trust me.” Liam had rolled his eyes and he has a feeling he’s going to be rolling them a lot when the hotel ends up being a mile away from the cross streets he’s given the drive, but that’s fine.

He’s the first to arrive, he thinks, can’t hear anyone laughing too loud in the rooms nearby at least, and when he puts the key into the door, Zayn’s not in there already. He hasn’t heard everyone’s plan, just knows Louis is already in town for a meeting with the senator he works for, and Zayn’s taking a bus down with Niall. Harry’s plans are as mysterious as he has been for the past year, he’ll show up right on time somehow, he’s sure, but that still leaves him alone in his room, no idea when the rest of them will be here. He turns the radio on just to fill the quiet and digs the newspaper he’d picked up earlier out of his bag, skips the front section he’d read on the train and lies back on his bed, tries to just be patient.

He wakes up again at the sound of a knock on his door, someone’s muffled voice behind it. And then it’s Zayn shouting through the wood, “Liam, you in there?” and he scrambles up off the bed, accidentally crumples the paper but doesn’t really notice. He swings the door open without hesitating and then there they are, Zayn and Niall looking just a little older, grinning at him. They all freeze a moment and take each other in, Niall’s got a sunburn it looks like, freckles dark like they had been by the end of their first week in basic, Zayn’s grown a beard. Looks really fucking good lmao. Then it’s all arms, the two of them tackling him back inside and talking over each other, “Payno! Look good!” “Longest bus ride of all time!” “How was your train?” and he can’t help laughing, brushes his hand to Zayn’s arm and his other at the scruff of Niall’s neck, must have just gotten his hair cut. “It was fine, no complaints.” They pull away a bit but keep a hold on each other, both of their smiles maybe the best thing he’s seen in all twelve months.

Louis shows up just as Niall is insisting they can’t wait all day for lunch; no one had bothered locking the door and he quite literally just walks right in with a, “How we doing, boys?” He’s got a suit jacket over his shoulder and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, looks as promising a politician as the best of them as far as Liam can tell. Niall makes it over to him first, pulls him into a hug with a bunch of slaps on the back that Louis returns with much more force if Niall’s cringing means anything, and then he’s pulling Liam in and Zayn just presses in as well, the four of them all hitting each other on the backs. He hadn’t really imagined how this would be, but if he had he kind of thinks Louis bringing them in for a group hug with just a touch of violence in it would have been a safe bet.

*

Harry had bugged Gemma for an hour before they were supposed to leave and even then they hadn’t actually gotten in her car for another hour; he’s going to be late. They hadn’t set a time to actually reassemble and he already owes her for putting up for the past week but regardless, he can already imagine the four of them already eating lunch or something, Niall stealing fries off Liam’s plate and getting a swat for it. He smiles into his hand, rests his head against the window. Gemma has the radio on and Perry Como is singing _so please be tender and darling surrender_ and he’s sleepy, think just before he dozes off about the times their mom would drive them all day to some place for vacation, falling asleep in the backseat since Gemma always claimed the front.

He wakes up to Gemma shaking him awake. “We’re here, Hare Bear,” quiet in his ear. He looks out the windshield at a nondescript motel, neon spelling out _Janie’s_ in a bright sign over the office and then grins, kisses Gemma on the cheek and hops out, “Thanks Gem, see you soon, alright?” wide awake. Grabs his bag from the trunk and practically skips to the office, asks for Niall Horan’s room number. Eighteen, great, good, takes the steps two at a time and can’t help but run to it, knocks on the door all out of breath. He can hear people in the rooms next door but nothing through eighteen, puts his head against the wood, even. He knocks again. Waits. Nothing. Okay, maybe they’re out, found a party or a good bar, Louis knew a place that would have a good Saturday night crowd. Something. He turns and hesitates, takes a few steps away, but doesn’t really know where to go. Maybe he can get his own room. He leans over the rail of the balcony and grabs hold of it, kind of swings back and forth stalling; knows he doesn’t have enough cash on him to cover a single here, when from behind him he hears a crash into the door of 17 and a burst of laughter that he’d recognize anywhere. The door opens seconds later to reveal Niall on the floor laughing so hard he’s crying and the rest of them in a pile trying to get off of him, Louis the only one functional and holding the door open. “So you made it, after all, eh, Doc?” and it’s like the same old Louis, same old Liam helping Zayn up off the floor. Niall hiccuping into the carpet. “Goddamn, you guys, nearly gave me a broken heart.” Louis is still laughing when he pulls him inside. “Well we had to punish you somehow showing up six hours late,” all four of them smiling at him, the best friends he’s ever had.

*

Harry and Liam go to Arlington before Liam’s train Sunday evening. The other have all headed home or into a spontaneous meeting at the Capitol, and Harry has nothing else to do so he asks if Liam minds. He shakes his head, shrugs. “Just figured I’d pay respect, you know?” and Harry gets it, feels the weight of the metal in his pocket heavier than usual.

They get there with a few hours to spend and Harry lets Liam wander off into the grass, knows he’ll be able to spot through the sparse people spread throughout the cemetery later and walks into the welcome center, tries to make sense of the directory but gratefully takes the help of a woman wearing a nametag that says Catie. He’s memorized the name since the war’s end, traces it in his pocket. _Brooks. James L._ Jimmy Brooks killed somewhere just past the shores of Normandy, and it’s been a lifetime it seems like that Harry’s carried his dogtag in his pocket, across Europe and now America. Catie finds his name halfway through one of the books they have just listing names, gives him a section number and grave and a map, points him south out of the center.

He takes his time walking, feels like his body isn’t even his just one foot in front of the other, eyes scanning out over too many crosses. It’s far, feels farther than any other distance he’s walked in the past year; when he gets to section twelve there are rows of fresh dirt where the grass hasn’t grown in yet. Thinks about the families that asked their sons be returned home, wonders who the Brookses are, if they’ve made it up here yet from Louisiana. 2328 is well into the section, passes by too many rows to keep count before he gets to 2380 and has to walk past sixty more. Overestimated the number, feels heavy with it. He comes to it from behind, sees the number and then takes the few steps past to read his name on the stone, stare at the grass just starting to grow over. When he kneels down he doesn’t have the energy to feel surprised at the lump in his throat or the tears that just fall on their own accord, just lets them go. Reaches into his pocket for the metal string of the tag and pulls it out, sets it into the dirt and lets the glint of the metal blur in his eyes. Doesn’t know how to deal with how helpless he feels, maybe never will, just stays there until the sand beneath him turns back into grass and the sun on his back is warm in a way that feels whole.

Liam doesn’t have a map, only guesses his whereabouts by how close the visitors center is and how high up on the hill he’s standing. It’s just as big as he remembers it. He’s not as skittish now, not like when he was ten and too scared to touch anything or talk too loudly. He watches the changing of the guards, there’s not much of a crowd at this hour and he salutes them and the tomb just like he was taught a decade ago. He doesn’t have a toy rifle or his dad holding his hand, just a mess of scars on his side and a friend who’s probably fields away taking it in at his own pace. The trails from the Tomb of the Unknown eventually winds back to graves from the Civil War, and even though it was ages ago every tomb is still a person. It’s something that didn’t really strike Liam when he was younger but now it does, kneels down by the cross of a soldier, engraved just with _John Williams, Pennsylvania_ , _1844-1863._ They all had fathers and mothers that they wouldn’t get to see again, and Liam is lucky. When he stands up he has to place a hand on the top of the cross to keep himself steady, lets it wash over him that he’s alive and home and got to hug his mother again.

He crosses paths with Harry again as they both head back to the welcome center, Liam with his hands shoved in his pockets and Harry wringing his hands the way he does when he’s restless.

“I saw the memorials for the Great War,” Liam says quietly, pauses to see if Harry’s open to him talking. “And the Civil War tombs. And, like, is it stupid that I’m grateful my father didn’t end up here? That none of _us_ ended up here? Like, I hate his guts, and I never thought I’d see you boys again. So coming here again is just.” He leaves it at that, bites his lip and scratches his head.

Harry squints down the hall to the exit, rubs his face. “Nah, Li. Not stupid at all.”

They keep walking, both of them pausing at the entrance to drop some coins in the donations jar and turn to salute the building. By the time they get out to the bus stop, Harry’s got his arm hooked around Liam’s shoulders, carding his fingers through the hair at the nape of Liam’s neck where it’s gotten longer. Liam lets himself turn into the touch a bit, grins and says as steadily as possible, “only reason I’m not in that cemetery right now is because of you, Doc.”

Harry doesn’t respond, but Liam sees the twitch in his jaw before he tightens Liam into a hug and they just stand like that for a while until Harry sniffs into Liam’s shoulder and pulls back, eyes glassy but he’s smiling. “Doubt that. Think one little grenade could kill Liam Payne?” he scoffs, rolls his eyes as they get into the bus and leave the cemetery behind them.

When they say goodbye at the train station it’s Harry that tells Liam to take care of himself, watches him disappear into the crowd of commuters and travelers with his pack at his feet. He’d planned to head back to New Orleans maybe, visit the friends he’d made last year this time, but he still feels restless. Grabs one headed west, instead. Thinks maybe he’ll stop by St. Louis.

It’s another six months before he sees any of the others, manages to catch Louis on a quick stop in Boston. They see their first Sox game together and eat four hot dogs each, laugh themselves through all nine innings. In a few years he finally settles down in Chicago, gets a job at the VA hospital on the south side and hosts the first of several gatherings of the five of them in 1949.

Louis moves to Boston for a bit, reconciles with his mom by promising to visit once a month, and come by as much as he can when the twins are born. When he moves to DC, Jay tells him to keep in touch but she lets him go easier now that he’s got a job lined up working for the senator of Massachusetts in Congress. He promises her that he’s going to make a difference and that one day she can finally meet Harry and the others, starts telling her some things over telephone calls or letters about what he’s doing now. Harry ends up staying with Louis for a summer in DC, both of them working on veteran’s advocacy and pushing for better funding towards the GI Bill and the VA Department. Louis takes him back to Hartford with him for Thanksgiving and the trip becomes something they do each year together.

It’s easiest for Niall and Zayn to visit and they do, spend at least one Saturday a month for the rest of their lives taking a train to one or the other, playing chess in the park or going to the zoo, whatever happens to catch their interest. Zayn teaches American History and English to high school students in Brooklyn for 50 years. Niall starts a community garden and farms. When Zayn retires they go back to France and tour cathedrals for a whole month, visit Normandy and Zayn does his best to find Annette but doesn’t have much to go on with just a first name and some flowers. He writes a memoir but doesn’t publish it, just sends a copy to each of them and puts his own copy on the bookshelf in his living room.

Zayn keeps the French bible he took from the church. One of the first things he did when he got home was extract every pressed flower from Annette out of the bible, pin them all into frames to make sure he doesn’t lose a single one. It’s quite a contrast, the frames hanging on the wall behind his jars of sand and medal of victory, with the bible, his French to English dictionary, his memoir and his passport stacked at the end of the shelf. He doesn’t keep his things as organized as Liam, who’s got his helmet and uniform and the empty jar of strawberry jam in a glass display case in his living room, but he keeps it all out. Sometimes reads a verse out in French before going to bed on nights that are the hardest to get through. He thinks of Annette a lot, wonders if she’s still in France or if she’s moved elsewhere, wonders if she remembers him. He has no doubt that she’s alive and doing brilliant things.

Liam manages to separate himself from the war, which was all he was ever hoping to do. He keeps all the memories locked into the glass case in his house, never opens it and touches but will sometimes just stand and admire his helmet, the tattered map with doodles from Zayn in the corner, his Purple Heart that he kept for reasons he can’t really explain. He and his father continue to exist on well-enough terms, as long as neither of them bring up their wars. Liam moves out anyway, keeps working as a carpenter in Columbus, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, slowly makes his way to the east coast. He calls Zayn once a week and Harry continues to write letters to all four of them, the envelopes always somehow making their way to wherever Liam is. Liam has a sneaking suspicion that Louis is keeping tabs on all of them and probably updating Harry with their new addresses and telephone numbers, still protective of his boys even after all these years. Thinks in twenty years, fifty, whatever, this is all going to stay the same, familiar like the shape of his fingers to his hand. The five of them through it all.

*

fin.


End file.
